SONGS  FOR 
THE 

NEW  AGE 


JAMES  OPPENHEIM 


SONGS  FOR  THE 
NEW  AGE 


BY  JAMES  OPPENHEIM 
THE      BOOK      OF      SELF 

"  Loftiness  of  thought  combines  with  beauty  of  dic 
tion  in  all  these  poems  in  a  manner  which  stamps  Mr. 
Oppenheim  as  one  of  the  ablest  poets  of  today." 

—  The  Detroit  News-Tribune. 

"  James  Oppenheim  is  so  well  entrenched  in  the  liter 
ary  hall  of  fame  that  his  works  now  command  wide 
attention." —  The  Boston  Globe. 

"  A  masterpiece  of  that  frank  revelation  which  adds 
interpretive  to  confessional  value." —  The  Chicago 
Herald. 

PUBLISHED  BY   ALFRED   A.    KNOPF,   NEW   YORK 


SONGS    for   the 

NEW    AGE 

by    JAMES    OPPENHEIM 


NEWYORK       Vg^^Bv         MCMXX 

ALFRED   '  A  '   KNOPF 


COPYRIGHT,  1914,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INC. 


FEINTED   IN    THE    TTNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


For  arduous  and  absorbing  help 

I  want  to  give  thanks  to 

LEILA,  HELEN  AND  ARTHUR  GLEASON 

JEAN  AND  Louis  UNTERMEYER 

For  equal  help  and  other  help 

I  dedicate  this  volume  to 

DR.  BEATRICE  M.  HINKLE 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


WE  DEAD 

PAGE 

Before  Starting 3 

Let  Nothing  Bind  You 5 

As  to   Being  Alone 7 

Civilization 9 

Sin    11 

Self 13 

When  in  the  Death  of  Love 15 

Where  Love  Once  Was 16 

Love  and  Marriage 17 

One  Who  Loved 19 

The  Haunted  Heart 20 

The  Clinging  Arms 21 

Property    22 

The  Morning  Stars 23 

The   Slave 24 

The   Laugher 25 

Patterns    26 

The  Paradox 28 

Waiting    29 

The  Descending  Hour 30 

Sickliness    31 

^Esthetes  32 


•ffnfcer  of  titles 


Washington  Square 115 

Sky-Lover 117 

The  Flocks 118 

The  Tree 119 

Jottings: 

Books 120 

Arrival  and  Departure 120 

Exile 121 

The  Edge  of  the  Possible 121 

The  Baffled  One 122 

Renewal 123 

The  Adored  One — I  to  VI 124 

Friends 1 30 

As  to  Being  Made  a  Fool  Of 131 

The  Writer  of  Many  Books 132 

The  Mighty  Hour 134 

WE  UNBORN 

The  Mother 139 

Death 141 

Looking   Down   on   Earth 143 

The  Runner  in  the  Skies 145 

In  the  Theater 1 4( 

The  Surveyor 147 

A  Handful  of  Dust 148 

Assurance 150 

The  Risen  Ones 1 5 1 

The  Dreamer  in  Me 1 52 

WE  UNBORN 153 

Index  of  first  lines ,  163 


x- 


r  - 


I 

WE  DEAD 


BEFORE  STARTING 

TT  WAS  as  if  myself  sat  down  beside  me, 
-*    And  at  last  I  could  speak  out  to  my  dear  friend, 
And  tell  him,  day  after  day,  of  the  things  that  were  re 
shaping  me. 

He  was  not  afraid  to  hear  my  deepest  secrets : 
He  was  not  shocked  at  my  coarseness  and  trivialities : 
He  was  prepared  Jor  my  hours  of  weakness, — and  exal 
tation. 

Neither  did  he  judge  me  "by  any  one  moment: 
He  knew  it  as  a  fragment  of  the  impulse  that  bore  me  for 
ward. 

Yes,  these  songs  were  for  myself. 

But  when  they  were  finished,  other  selves  desired  them. 

Are  there  still  others  who  will  sit  close  by  and  listen  ? 

Is  it  you  ?    Are  you  the  new  friend? 
May  all  be  told  to  you  ? 


LET  NOTHING  BIND  YOU 

LET  nothing  bind  you: 
If  it  is  Duty,  away  with  it. 
If  it  is  Law,  disobey  it. 
If  it  is  Opinion,  go  against  it ... 

There  is  only  one  Divinity:  Yourself. 
Only  one  God :  You  . . . 

Beware  that  you  worship  no  false  idols: 

Take  no  crust  of  manners  or  whimsical  desires, 

No  surface-lusts  and  frailties, 

For  the  real  You  hidden  down  beneath: 

But  dig  ... 

Dig  with  shovel  of  will  and  engine  of  love  and  passion, 

When  the  lonely  day  drags  toward  the  lonelier  night, 

When  betrayal  and  malice  trip  you  and  throw  you  on 

yourself, 
Dig  down  to  Self,  and  set  God  free  . . . 

Bethink  yourself! 

God  is  the  Life  surging  forward  creatively, 

The  swimmer  in  space  whipping  up  a  foam  of  stars: 

Clear  your  little  channel  for  him  . . . 

He  is  you  . . . 


OLet  IRotbino  Binfc  i»ou 


Then,  shall  a  law  be  greater  than  God, 
Shall  an  opinion  shrink  him, 
A  duty  stay  him? 

Forth!    Let  nothing  bind  you! 


w 


AS  TO  BEING  ALONE 

HY  did  you  hate  to.  be  by  yourself, 
And  why  were  you  sick  of  your  own  company? 


Such  the  question,  and  this  the  answer: 

I  feared  sublimity: 

I  was  a  little  afraid  of  God: 

Silence  and  space  terrified  me,  bringing  the  thought  of 

what  an  irritable  clod  I  was  and  how  soon  death 

would  gulp  me  down  .  .  . 

This  fear  has  reared  cities: 

The  cowards  flock  together  by  the  millions  lest  they 

should  be  left  alone  for  a  half  hour .  .  . 
With  church,  theater  and  school, 
With  office,  mill  and  motor, 
With  a  thousand  cunning  devices,  and  clever  calls  to 

each  other, 
They  escape  from  themselves  to  the  crowd  .  .  . 

Oh,  I  have  loved  it  all: 

Snug  rooms,  the  talk,  the  pleasant  feast,  the  pictures: 

The  warm  bath  of  humanity  in  which  I  relaxed  and 

soaked  myself: 
And  never,  I  hope,  shall  I  be  without  it — at  times  .  .  . 


Bs  ZEo  IBeing  Hlone 


But  now  myself  calls  me  .  . . 

The  skies  demand  me,  though  it  is  but  ten  in  the 
morning: 

The  earth  has  an  appointment  with  me,  not  to  be 
broken  .  .  . 

I  must  accustom  myself  to  the  gaunt  face  of  the  Sub- 
time  . .  . 

I  must  see  what  I  really  am,  and  what  I  am  for, 

And  what  this  city  is  for,  and  the  Earth  and  the  stars 
in  their  hurry  .  .  . 

To  turn  out  typewriters, 

To  invent  a  new  breakfast  food, 

To  devise  a  dance  that  was  never  danced  until  now, 

To  urge  a  new  sanitation,  and  a  swifter  automobile — 

Have  the  life-surging  heavens  no  business  but  this? 


CIVILIZATION 

CIVILIZATION! 
Everybody  kind  and  gentle,  and  men  giving  up 

their  seats  in  the  car  for  the  women  .  .  . 
What  an  ideal! 
How  bracing! 

Is  this  what  we  want? 

Have  so  many  generations  lived  and  died  for  this? 

There  have  been  Crusades,   persecutions,   wars,   and 

majestic  arts, 
There  have  been  murders  and  passions  and  horrors 

since  man  was  in  the  jungle  .  .  . 
What  was  this  blood-toll  for? 
Just  so  that  everybody  could  have  a  full  belly  and  be 

well-mannered  ? 

But  let  us  not  fool  ourselves: 

This  civilization   is   mostly  varnish   very  thinly  laid 

on  ... 
Take    any    newspaper    any    morning:    scan    through 

it.  .  . 

Rape,  murder,  villany,  and  picking  and  stealing: 
The  mob  that  tore  a  negro  to  pieces,  the  men  that 

ravished  a  young  girl: 


Civilisation 


The  safe-blowing  gang  and  the  fat  cowardly  promoter 

who  stole  people's  savings  .  .  . 
Just  scan  it  through:  this  news  of  civilization  .  .  . 

Away  then,  with  soft  ideals: 

Brace  yourself  with  bitterness: 

A  drink  of  that  biting  liquor,  the  Truth  .  .  . 

Let  us  not  be  afraid  of  ourselves,  but  face  ourselves 

and  confess  what  we  are: 

Let  us  go  backward  a  while  that  we  may  go  forward: 
This  is  an  excellent  age  for  insurrection,  revolt,  and 

the  reddest  of  revolutions  . 


10 


SIN 


SIN!  sin!  sin! 
I  am  sick  of  your  ever  worrying  what  is  good 

and  bad, 
What  is  moral  and  sinful .  .  . 

Go  find  what  you  really  are  .  .  . 
Are  you  a  cave-man  underneath  your  civilized  crust? 
Or  a  sensualist  or  a  glutton? 

Are  you  a  prostitute  deep  beneath  your  enforced  mon 
ogamy?  .  .  . 
What  is  it  really  you  want? 

Better  then  to  be  what  you  are: 

Better  that,  than  to  live  a  lie:  to  be  a  sweet  conformer 

on  the  surface, 

A  respectable  citizen  and  prompt  voter, 
And  yet  ever  wallowing  in  secret  shame  and  in  sense  of 

sinning! 

The  real  sin  is  in  being  divided  against  yourself: 
In  wanting  one  thing  and  doing  another: 
For  after  all  you  are  betraying  yourself  every  moment: 
Every  moment  what  you  really  are  is  leaking  through 
in  some  detestable  manner  . . . 

11 


Sin 


Your  desire  for  women  becomes  a  smutty  joke: 

Your  desire  for  power  becomes  bad  temper  to  your 

inferiors: 

Your  desire  for  freedom  comes  out  in  mean  irrita 
tions  .  .  . 

Perchance,  though,  you  fear  the  civilized  world  would 
crumble  if  you  let  yourself  go? 

Why,  it  has  already  crumbled  so  far  as  you  are  con 
cerned  .  .  . 

Do  you  think  that  such  a  dark  and  oozing  creature  is 
civilized  ? 

I  can  tell  you  a  better  way .  .  . 
Be  what  you  are  .  .  . 

Then  you  can  take  your  desires  and  lift  them  and  har 
ness  them  .  .  . 

(Men  that  can  harness  Niagara  can  harness  gluttony) 
The  murderer  becomes  the  deft-fingered  surgeon: 
The  child  that  models  smut  becomes  the  sculptor: 
The  luster  after  women  becomes  the  music-shaping 
poet .  .  . 

If  you  are  really  so  anxious  to  contribute  something  to 

civilization, 
Go,  and  contribute  a  Man  . . . 


12 


SELF 

ONCE  I  freed  myself  of  my  duties  to  tasks  and 
people  and  went  down  to  the  cleansing  sea  ... 
The  air  was  like  wine  to  my  spirit, 
The  sky  bathed  my  eyes  with  infinity, 
The  sun  followed  me,  casting  golden  snares  on  the  tide, 
And  the  ocean — masses  of  molten  surfaces,   faintly 
gray-blue — sang  to  my  heart .  .  . 

Then  I  found  myself,  all  here  in  body  and  brain,  and 

all  there  on  the  shore: 

Content  to  be  myself:  free,  and  strong,  and  enlarged: 
Then  I  knew  the  depths  of  myself  were  the  depths  of 

space, 
And  all  living  beings  were  of  those  depths  (my  brothers 

and  sisters) 
And  that  by  going  inward  and  away  from  duties,  cities, 

street-cars  and  greetings, 
I  was  dipping  behind  all  surfaces,  piercing  cities  and 

people, 
And  entering  in  and  possessing   them,   more  than  a 

brother, 
The  surge  of  all  life  in  them  and  in  me ... 

13 


Self 

So  I  swore  I  would  be  myself  (there  by  the  ocean) 
And  I   swore   I   would  cease  to   neglect  myself,   but 

would  take  myself  as  my  mate, 
Solemn  marriage  and  deep:  midnights  of  thought  to  be: 
Long  mornings  of  sacred  communion,  and  twilights  of 

talk, 
Myself  and  I,  long  parted,  clasping  and  married  till 

death. 


14 


WHEN  IN  THE  DEATH  OF  LOVE. 

WHEN  in  the  death  of  love, 
The  lovers  part, 

With  saddened  quiet  in  their  eyes, 
And  brief  low  words, 

They  do  not  wonder  at  the  autumn's  dying, 
Nor  at  the  fall  of  leaves  in  the  late  wind, 
Nor  wooded  hills  in  winter. 

A  sadness  steeps  the  sky, 

A  grayness  glistens  in  the  air, 

And  the  Earth's  bosom  is  barren,  bleak  and  brown 

When  in  the  death  of  love 

The  lovers  part. 


15 


WHERE  LOVE  ONCE  WAS 

WHERE  love  once  was,  let  there  be  no  hate: 
Though  they  that  went  as  one  by  night  and  day 
Go  now  alone, 
Where  love  once  was,  let  there  be  no  hate. 

The  seeds  we  planted  together 

Came  to  rich  harvest, 

And  our  hearts  are  as  bins  brimming  with  the  golden 

plenty: 
Into  our  loneliness  we  carry  granaries  of  old  love  . .  . 

And  though  the  time  has  come  when  we  cannot  sow 

our  acres  together 
And  our  souls  need  diverse  fields, 
And  a  tilling  apart, 

Let  us  go  separate  ways  with  a  blessing  each  for  each, 
And  gentle  parting, 
And  let  there  be  no  hate, 
Where  love  once  was. 


16 


LOVE  AND  MARRIAGE 

THE  LOVE  of  man  for  woman  and  woman  for  man, 
It  is  not  often  love  .  .  . 

When  the  married  couple  kiss  do  they  drink  the  music 
of  each  other's  souls, 

Are  they  moved  to  unspeakable  reverence  and  adora 
tion, 

Would  they  renounce  the  world  for  the  good  of  the 
beloved? 

No,  kisses  are  become  to  them  a  routine  and  a  duty: 
They  find  each  other's  bodies  at  midnight  as  they  find 

breakfast  in  the  morning: 
And  they  fill  the  idle  hours  with  games,  shows,  rides 

and  liquor, 
All  to  escape  from  one  another  .  . . 

I  have  thoughts  of  a  love  that  might  be; 

Of  a  love  that  is  the  tender  caress  of  forehead  and 

cheeks  with  barely  lingering  hands: 
Of  a  love  that  opens  the  skies  at  midnight  for  silent 

flight, 
Flight  far,  with  wings,  in  one  another's  arms  .  .  . 

17 


%o\>e  anfc  flfcarriacje 


These  lovers  shall  mean  as  much  to  each  other  as  they 

mean  to  themselves: 

Their  tenderness  shall  melt  down  irritations: 
Their  passion  shall  surcharge  tasks  with  meaning  .  .  . 

Not  alone  shall  the  man  find  God  in  himself, 
But  in  the  beloved  shall  he  find  him,  and  in  the  sight 
of  the  beloved  shall  he  adore  him  . 


18 


ONE  WHO  LOVED 

I  HAVE  heard  of  a  great  love: 
Of  a  woman  who  lived  behind  the  partition  in  a 
lawyer's  office: 

For  four  years  she  was  hidden  with  this  married  man: 

She  never  went  out,  day  or  night: 

She  sat  very  still,  lest  a  client  might  overhear  her  .  .  . 

She  sewed  and  read  and  translated  and  waited  her 
lover  .  .  . 

His  foot  had  a  running  sore:  tenderly  she  bathed  it. 

He  was  no  longer  young:  no,  she  was  in  love  with  him 
self  .  .  . 

And  when  he  died,  and  she  was  discovered,  she  held 
up  her  head  and  said  to  us: 

"Had  I  to  do  it  over  again:  thus  would  I  do  it." 

Ah,  men  and  women  that  I  know, 

How  many  of  you  really  love  each  other? 


19 


THE  HAUNTED  HEART 

THE  haunted  heart  beseeches  me: 
It  cries  to  my  soul:  "Winter  has  come  .  .  . 
With  what  a  withering  the  wind  blows! 
And  the  gray  twilight  is  bleak,  though  the  lamplighter 
opens  blossoms  of  white  in  the  air ... 

"Wanderer,  return! 

Go  to  where  the  hearth  is  warm  and  the  faces  crowd: 

Hearken  to  the  calling  of  the  children!" 

So  the  haunted  heart  beseeches  me, 

But  from  my  heart  I  turn  my  face 

And  continue  my  lonely  journey  into  the  sombre  dark. 


20 


THE   CLINGING   ARMS 

PUSH  off  the  clinging  arms! 
There  is  only  death  in  this  strangle-hold;  even 
if  we  call  it  love  .  .  . 

The  mother  who  cares  too  much  for  her  child, 
Or  the  husband  for  his  wife, 

They  are  keeping  sheltered  and  confined  what  should 
be  free  and  hardy,  toughened  for  battle! 

Nay,  there  is  no  real  love  in  this  binding: 
It  is  more  often  a  sense  of  waste  and  futility, 
And  a  fierce  bickering  and  quarreling .  .  . 

Shake  free! 

Know  love  in  freedom:  know  love  in  separation: 

Give  the  soul  its  own  self  to  support  it,  and  take  off 

your  arms! 

Do  honor  to  the  divinity  of  another  human  being 
By  trusting  its  power  to  go  alone. 


21 


PROPERTY 

M 


Y  LIFE  does  not  belong  to  me: 

Neither  does  it  belong  to  any  other  person. 


Otherwise  this  chatter  and  comfort  would  be  sufficient: 
This   ingrowing   family   life   would   be   gracious    and 

excellent: 
This  ease  of  the  rut  would  suit  for  a  lifetime. 

But  no:  Earth  and  the  heavens  are  in  growth:  and  the 

sap  is  climbing  through  me: 
I  must  go  the  way  of  the  skies: 

I  must  feel  the  star-tendencies  and  give  myself  to  them: 
My  life  belongs  to  creation,  as  a  hand  belongs  to  a 

body. 

If  then,  my  day's  work  done, 

Time  is  allowed  for  gossip  and  the  choke  of  families, 
Gladly  will  I  take  my  ease,  and  smoke,  and  talk: 
But  I  shall  not  forget  the  business  of  the  stars  just 
above  the  roof  of  the  room. 


22 


THE   MORNING  STARS 

OF  OLD  the  psalmist  said  that  the  morning  stars  sing 
together, 
He  said  the  rocks  do  sing  and  that  the  hills  rejoice  .  .  . 

There  be  ten  million  ears  in  this  little  city  alone  .  .  . 
How  many  have  heard  the  rocks,  the  hills  and  the 

stars  ? 

Not  I,  not  I,  as  I  hurried  uptown  and  downtown! 
I  heard  the  wheels  of  the  cars,  the  chatter  of  many 

mouths, 
I  was  in  the  opera  house  when  it  seemed  almost  to  burst 

with  music, 
I  heard  the  laughter  of  children,  and  the  venom  of 

mixed  malicious  tongues, 
But  neither  the  stars  I  heard  nor  the  muted  rocks  nor 

the  hills! 

David,  of  Asia,  I  do  hear  now  .  .  . 

I  do  hear  now  the  music  of  the  spheres — 

I  have  stepped  one  step  into  the  desert  of  Loneliness, 

I  have  turned  my  ear  from  the  world  to  my  own 

self  .  .  . 
I  have  paused,  stood  still,  listened. 

23 


T 


THE  SLAVE 

HEY  set  the  slave  free,  striking  off  his  chains 
Then  he  was  as  much  of  a  slave  as  ever. 


He  was  still  chained  to  servility, 

He  was  still  manacled  to  indolence  and  sloth, 

He  was  still  bound  by  fear  and  superstition, 

By  ignorance,  suspicion,  and  savagery  .  .  . 

His  slavery  was  not  in  the  chains, 

But  in  himself  .  .  . 

They  can  only  set  free  men  free  . . . 
And  there  is  no  need  of  that: 
Free  men  set  themselves  free. 


24 


THE  LAUGHER 

STUCK  in  the  mire  of  many  philosophies, 
Quicksands  of  creeds  and  codes, 
I  would  have  come  to  nothing  if  my  soul  had  not 
laughed  at  me  ... 

"Stupid!"  he  said, 

"They  speak  of  what  they  want:  but  what  do  you  want? 

Go  and  question  yourself! 

Surely  the  oak  does  not  put  forth  apples, 

Nor  the  wild-rose  many-eyed  excellent  potatoes!" 

Thanks,  laugher! 

I'm  off  now  down  the  long  road  of  myself, 

The  way  is  clear:  I  could  shout  in  this  wind  of  freedom, 

Even  as  the  sun  rejoices  that  it  sheds  natural  sunbeams, 

And  the  sea  that  it  runs  down  the  tides. 


25 


PATTERNS 

WOULD  you  lay  a  pattern  on  life  and  say,  thus 
shall  ye  live? 

I  tell  you  that  is  a  denial  of  life: 
I  say  that  thus  we  pour  our  spirits  in  a  mould,  and  they 
cake,  and  die ... 

Thus,  indeed,  we  become  the  good  and  the  respectable: 
Thus  we  neither  lie  nor  steal,  and  we  commit  neither 

murder  nor  adultery: 
But  truly  when  I  look  at  the  holy  ones,  the  pillars  of 

society, 
I  am  fain  to  go  and  get  drunk  or  go  talk  with  publicans 

and  sinners  .  .  . 

I  want  to  go  to  the  man  who  quickens  me: 

I  want  the  gift  of  life;  the  flame  of  his  spirit  eating 

along  the  tinder  of  my  heart: 
I  want  to  feel  the  floodgates  within  flung  open  and  the 

tides  pouring  through  me: 
I  want  to  take  what  I  am  and  bring  it  to  fruit. 

Quicken  me,  and  I  will  grow: 

Touch  me  with  flame,  and  the  blossoms  will  open  and 
the  fruit  appear  .  .  . 

26 


patterns 

Call  forth  in  me  a  creator,  and  the  god  will  an 
swer  .  .  . 

And  then  if  I  commit  what  you  call  a  sin, 

Better  so  ... 

It  will  not  be  a  sin:  it  will  be  a  mere  breaking  of  your 
patterns: 

For  the  only  sin  is  death,  and  the  only  virtue  to  be 
altogether  alive  and  your  own  authentic  self. 


27 


THE  PARADOX 

THE  wheeling  heavens,  at  this  moment  wheeling: 
The  self-absorbed  crowds  in  the  street .  .  . 
Gigantic  paradox! 

If  they  saw  the  sublimity  of  which  they  are  part 
They  would  hurry  and  hide,  like  children  afraid  of  the 
dark. 


28 


WAITING 

WHY  am  I  restless? 
Why  do  I  feel  I  cannot  wait  here  ten  minutes? 
From  what  am  I  fleeing? 

I  think  I  am  trying  to  run  from  myself: 
For  the  moment  I  sit  still  my  mind  propounds  ques 
tions, 
And  presents  problems  .  .  . 

What  of  it? 

Let  it  ask  its  fiercest  question:  I  will  listen  patiently. 

Let  it  speak  its  worst:  I  can  endure  it. 

Really,  I  have  been  fleeing  from  God: 

For  as  soon  as  I  bide  with  myself,  I  find  that  I  am 

biding  with  Nature: 
I  am  at  peace  with  Earth  and  the  Night  and  the  people 

around  me: 
For  all  life  is  one: 
And  the  nearest  jet  of  it  is  right  here  in  this  body  of 

mine. 


29 


THE  DESCENDING  HOUR 

OMY  most  bitter  mood, 
O  descending  hour,  plunge  in  the  crater  of  my 
self, 

And  steep  decline  among  flames,  faces,  torments,  dark 
ness s. 

1  had  forgotten — 

I  had  forgotten  the  madness  of  life — 

The   blood-drinker,    Time,   was   forgotten,   the   love- 

parter,  Death, 
And  those  gibbering  ghosts,  my  ancestors. 

Horror  bore  us:  as  if  the  gorge  of  Night  rose,  becom 
ing  worlds: 

And  on  the  inhospitable  shores  of  the  planet  we  were 
born, 

And  driven  before  the  elements,  and  whipped,  falling, 
to  death  .  .  . 

We  rear  cities,  crowding  them  with  lights: 
We  try  to  forget  with  shows  and  busy  toil: 
But  under  it  all  the  tide,  the  tide  bearing  us  out. 


30 


SICKLINESS 

HERE  is  strength,  here, 
In  my  own  breast: 

If  I  go  whining  to  the  Earth  and  the  stars, 
And  beseech  help  of  a  sweet  invisible  one  in  the  air 

about  me, 

Let  me  also  go  where  I  belong: 
Among  children  and  invalids. 

Off  with  this  habit  of  sickness! 

Let  me  puff  out  my  cheeks  and  blow  away  the  vapors 
of  sadness  and  downheartedness! 

The  erect  pride  shall  beget  a  manner  of  triumph: 

And  the  bugle  of  that  manner  shall  call  out  the  regi 
ments  of  my  tented  soul. 


31 


AESTHETES 

THE  xsthetes  read  and  wax  contemptuous  or  en 
thusiastic  .  .  . 

How  many  of  them  live  the  thing  they  praise, 
And  run  from  the  thing  they  blame? 


32 


THE  PURE 

THERE  was  a  man  called  pure, 
Because  neither  with  hand  nor  tongue  nor  visible 
act 
He  committed  any  sin. 

His  friend  took  him  and  peeled  him  like  an  onion, 
Stripped   off,   not  the  clothes  of  the  body,   but  the 

clothes  of  the  soul, 

And  came  at  last  to  the  dark  and  secret  closet .  .  . 
What  did  he  find? 

He  found  what  was  in  himself  and  in  you  and  me: 
For  the  sculptor  that  thumbed  so  patiently  the  clay 

of  earth  until  it  was  this  radiant  rosy  flesh, 
This  eyed  and  tongued  body  of  man  and  woman, 
That   sculptor,    Life,    shaped   our   bodies   out   of   the 

bodies  of  the  beasts, 
And  even  so  he  shaped  our  souls  and  hearts  out  of  the 

souls  and  hearts  of  the  beasts  .  .  . 
Yea,  the  babe  new-born  is,  in  all  save  the  open  mind, 
(That  curious  creator  within  us) 
A     little     crying     animal     desiring     milk     from     its 

mother . . . 

33 


TTbe  pure 

So  the  friend  found  in  the  pure  one  the  deposit  of  the 

dead  millenniums: 
But   alive  there:   a  jungle  and   swamp   of   ancestral 

beasts  and  savages .  .  . 
Chaos  of  the  earth  at  creation:  the  flowing  of  fires  and 

floods,  and  the  smokes  of  the  craters  .  .  . 
Yea,  the  bloody  black  history  of  man  was  locked  in 

that  breast. 

He  found  even  hell:  the  nether  region  of  torment: 
Hot  cravings,  dark  lusts,  the  maniac  and  the  slayer, 
The  foul  breath  of  the  ravening  betrayer  of  women, 

the  steaming  hand  of  the  persecutor, 
And  all  things  named  "carnal"  .  .  . 

And  at  the  gate  of  this  deep  Hell  he  found  the  little 
devil  of  Fear  pushing  back  the  immortal  Sins, 

And  the  little  devil  of  Respectability  shuddering  that 
the  Burning  Ones  might  escape, 

And  the  devil  of  Horror  barring  the  way  to  the  con 
victs  .  .  . 

So  the  friend  said  to  him: 

"Come,  man  of  Purity,  scourge  of  the  adulterers! 
A  word,  unblemished  One! 

"I  see  that  you  are  good  through  fear, 
And  not  because  of  your  nature  .  .  . 
1  see  that  you  are  stainless  because  you  want  to  be 
respectable, 

34 


TTbe  pure 

And  because  it  is  easier  to  succeed  in  the  world  if 
people  think  well  of  you  .  .  . 

"You  may  have  fooled  the  world  and  you  may  have 

fooled  yourself: 
But  Nature  is  never  fooled  .  .  . 
She  leaks  through  in  her  own  mysterious  way. 
She  plagues  a  liar  until  the  whole  spirit  itches  .  .  . 
For  what  makes  you  so  smug  and  dull  and  such  a  dead 

weight  on  your  friends: 
And  why  do  you  breathe  invisible  corruption  about 

you, 

And  remind  one  of  slime  and  dung  and  detestable 
things? 

Why  does  the  hearty  sinner  send  joy  upon  me,  and 
quicken  my  heart, 

So  that  I  throw  up  my  hat  and  applaud  the  freshness 
of  life, 

While  you,  O  Unspotted  One,  eat  into  my  day  like  a 
canker  of  ennui? 

You  breed  a  hate  of  virtue  and  a  loathing  of  good 
ness  .  .  . 

"Ha,  it  is  the  hidden  hell  breathing  through  you: 

It  is  the  smothered  beast  radiating  his  foulness  through 

your  flesh: 
It  is  the  adultery  in  the  heart  which  is  less  honest  and 

more  evil  than  the  adultery  in  the  act ... 
(Did  not  the  same  truth-teller  speak  of  the  whited 

sepulchre  ? ) 

35 


TTbe  pure 


"Come,  you  are  not  only  a  sinner,  but  a  coward  as  well: 

For  the  sinner  of  courage  goes  honestly  and  commits 
his  sin: 

And  so  rids  himself  of  this  pus,  and  cleanses  the  air 
for  us, 

And  makes  us  glad,  even  as  a  thunderstorm  that  puri 
fies  a  muggy  day .  .  . 

"So,  a  word,  friend  (I  was  never  so  real  a  friend  as 
now,  flaying  you  alive!) 

The  things  you  damn  in  others  are  the  things  that  are 
really  you: 

Go,  know  yourself:  turn  your  eyes  inward:  walk  hum 
bly  into  your  hell: 

Wear  every  scarlet  stripe  of  those  blood-red  flames: 

And  then  wait  the  miracle  .  .  . 

"For  behold!     Sin?     Not  so:  no,  but  the  human  .  .  . 

Thus  are  we  all ... 

Shall  we  say  Nature  is  foul  and  corrupt? 

Shall  we  say  the  receding  road  of  a  million  million 

years  down  the  past 
Was  all  a  mistake,  though  it  is  we  that  emerge  from 

that  road? 
Shall  we  damn  our  Mother,  whose  nimble  fingers  are 

ages  that  tenderly  shaped  us? 
Shall  we  curse  the  cyclone  that  whirled  up  from  the 

sun   and   in   fierce  cycles  begot   Earth   and   her 

children, 

36 


Ubc  pure 

And   now   sweeps   through   us,   crying   out  to   us  to 

create? 
Nay,  under  the  crust  of  our  minds  lie  the  weltering 

universes 
Jetting  up  power  enough  to  fill  the  skies  with  new 

stars  .  .  . 

"But,  lo,  on  the  crust,  and  over  the  welter, 

Sits  a  god:  the  creator:  you: 

And  more  than  the  hills  and  the  seas  give  you  granite 

and  steam 

The  self  within  offers  raw  powers  and  materials  .  .  . 
Take  this  desire  of  women  and  shape  of  the  passion  a 

poem  or  a  city, 
Take  this  lusting  to  kill  and  conquer  the  heavens  with 

wings, 
Take  these  hungering  beasts  in  your  breast  and  beget 

civilizations! 

What  you  call  Hell,  is  merely  unharnessed  power! 
And  if  you  touch  these  red  devils  with  love  and  hearty 

good  will 
Behold  as  they  lift  their  eyes,  the  faces  of  gods  .  .  . 

"Smother  not  the  storm  of  Life  in  the  soul: 

But  open  the  way,  and  shape  it,  blowing  from  your 

hands  and  lips: 

Be  a  god  using  the  storm  as  your  own  wings .  .  . 
The  lifter  of  your  spirit ! 

37 


ZTbe  pure 


"Then,  indeed,  you  will  cease  to  condemn  them  who 
have  not  the  guidance  to  transform  their  powers, 

But  live  as  in  nature, 

Then,  indeed,  you  will  go  sit  with  publicans  and  sin 
ners, 

And  understand  and  enjoy  them." 


38 


ABIDE  THE  ADVENTURE 

NEITHER  from  the  woe, 
Nor  from  the  war, 
Think  ye  to  escape  .  .  . 
It  helps  nothing  that  ye  shut  your  eyes,  oh,  cloistered 

cowards  and  gilded  idlers! 
For  neither  shall  cushion  nor  buffet  ease  the  sharp 

shock  of  life, 
Neither  shall  delicate  music  in  hushed  hotels  drown  out 

the  roar  of  the  battling  streets  .  .  . 
Neither  shall  winged  wheels  carry  you  away  to  the 

place  of  peace  .  . . 
How  can  ye  go  from  yourselves,  deluded  ones? 

Make  but  a  world  of  rest: 

Swifter  than  striking  lightning 

The  Aladdin  of  the  soul  builds  in  the  heart 

A  world  of  unresting  hell  .  .  . 

And,  oh  ye  shunners  of  war,  ye  are  gruelled  in  a  war 
of  the  spirit, 

In  a  battle  of  nerves  and  blood-vessels  and  the  ghost- 
haunted  brain, 

And  the  death  of  delight .  .  . 

39 


Hbtfce  Ube  Hfcventure 


Hence,  whip  ye  to  battle: 
Live  ye  to  the  uttermost: 
Abide  the  adventure. 


40 


TAKE  PHYSIC,  POMP! 

I  WAS  as  a  sieve  for  the  wind  this  morning: 
I  hurried  to  be  out  of  it: 
Zero  weather,  merciless  and  gray .  .  . 

Yet  there  on  the  pave  beside  the  park  rail, 

Leaning  toward  the  brown  frozen  grass, 

Stood  one  so  thinly  clad, 

He  bit  on  a  wad  of  paper  between  his  teeth  to  cover 

his  lips  and  nose, 
His  jacket  was  stuffed  with  newspaper,  his  shoes  with 

rags  .  .  . 
He  was  all  puffy  red  and  bleary  and  huddled  .  .  . 

At  the  same  time  he  was  throwing  bits  of  stale  bread 
to  some  sparrows  .  .  . 

Curious! 

Was  it  the  extremity  of  his  suffering  made  him  a 

brother  of  life? 
Ran  the  pain  so  deep  that  he  felt  even  for  birds? 

I  think  of  Lear's  cry:  "Take  physic,  pomp!" 


41 


IF  IT  COMES  TO  THIS 

BITTER,  bitter, 
A  night  that  kills  with  a  perishing  wind, 
The  cold  soaks  the  tight  houses,  fighting  the  fires .  . . 

The  air  about  the  street-lamps  is  blue  with  cold, 
The  moon's  a  disc  of  ice  frozen  to  the  sky, 
The  streets  are  whipped  clean  of  people:  the  wanderer 
blows  into  the  nearest  doorway .  .  . 

Yet  before  the  concert  hall 

The  chauffeur  sat  two  hours  in  the  rich  woman's  lim 
ousine 

While  she  fed  her  soul  with  delicious  music  indoors  .  .  . 

The  policeman  passing  thought  that  he  slept,  and 
shook  him  .  .  . 

He  did  not  sleep:  he  was  dead  of  the  eating  cold  .  .  . 

And  what  is  our  Art,  and  our  skyscraping  Commerce 

and  Traffic, 

And  what  our  steam-heated  Civilization, 
And  what  this  worry  over  our  tiny  Souls, 

42 


Iff  Ht  Comes  Uo  tlbis 


Yea,    what   this   wealth    pulled   from    the    Earth    by 

machines  and  so  great  that  we  waste  it, 
If  it  all  comes  to  this? 

Benign  Brotherhood,  do  we  really  want  you? 

Or  are  you  an  empty  word  to  cover  our  feeble  spirits? 


43 


THE  WEAK 
VER  the  same  —  this  love  of  the  weak. 


The  wind  was  so  bitter  that  the  Italian  mother  and 
child  were  blown  back  at  the  corner  .  .  . 

The  little  boy  cried,  whimpering  against  the  world  .  .  . 

Quickly  the  mother  took  her  shabby  furs  from  her 
neck 

And  wrapped  them  about  her  son  .  .  . 

Then  they  went  on,  both  of  them  content. 

We  pity  ourselves  when  we  pity  the  frailties  of  others, 
We  see  ourselves  in  the  beggar  or  the  murderer  sen 

tenced  to  be  killed; 
And  when  we  soothe  and  heal  another  we  are  merely 

laying  gentle  hands  upon  our  own  dark  trouble  .  .  . 

That  which  ye  do  for  the  least  of  these, 

Ye  do  for  me  ... 

Who  cannot  say  this,  loving  the  weak? 


44 


THE  HAG 

E  old  hag  sat  on  the  park  bench,  picking  her 
teeth: 

Her  hat  was  askew  over  her  stiffened  bangs: 
Her  skirts  were  bunched  together:  her  shoes  broken. 

What  did  Spring  mean  to  her? 

What  meaning  in  the  new  grass  blades  and  the  cloudy 

blue  of  the  skies? 
How  did  the  slow-rising  love-hymn  of  the  Earth  sound 

in  her  ears? 
What  mate  in  the  world  for  her? 

I  passed  by,  young  and  in  power: 

But  I  wished  for  a  moment  I  could  be  inside  her  head, 

And  see  what  else  the  world  means. 


45 


PRIESTS 

are  in  bad  odour, 
1        And  yet  there  shall  be  no  lack  of  them  .  . 
The  skies  shall  not  lack  a  spokesman, 
Nor  the  spirit  of  man  a  voice  and  a  gesture .  .  , 

Not  garbed  nor  churched, 
Yet,  as  of  old,  in  loneliness  and  anguish, 
They  shall  come  eating  and  drinking  among  us, 
With  scourge,  pity,  and  prayer. 


46 


W 


WHERE  BIDES  BROTHERHOOD? 

HERE  bides  Brotherhood, 
Where,  but  within? 


Self  is  the  world-container, 

Pyramid  of  eternity  whereof  my  body  is  infinitesimal 

apex  .  .  . 

Whereof  all  bodies  are  the  apices  .  .  . 
But  Self  is  thyself  just  the  same  as  myself. 

So  never  shall  charity  avail  me, 

And  never  kind  words  nor  the  urging  of  excellent  laws, 

Nor  warring  for  weighty  politics,  nor  voting  with  the 

oppressed  .  .  . 

Only  the  going  to  Self  is  a  going  to  my  brothers  .  .  . 
Only  walking  deep  in  to  the  heart  of  love  is  walking 

out  to  the  darkened  cities  of  men  .  .  . 

What  help  to  meet  the  stranger  from  the  outside  ? 
How  pierce  his  mask? 

No,  I  dive  under  him  into  the  stream  beneath, 
Then  rise  through  him,  and  dwell  in  his  deep  heart. 


47 


THE  ROCK 

E  soul  is  an  abyss, 
1       The  crowd  is  a  rock. 

Give  me  then  the  dive  into  the  bottomless  pit, 
Thence  to  draw  power  and  the  strength  of  spacious 

life  .  .  . 
But  let  me  not  drown  in  those  waters  where  madness 

lies, 
Let  me  not  drown  like  Nietzsche,  scorner  of  mobs  .  , 

No,  risen  again  to  the  surface, 

I  will  go  set  my  feet  upon  the  rock. 


48 


ACTION 

HPHERE  comes  a  moment  when  to  believe  is  not 
1       enough, 

When  to  go  on  merely  feeling  and  thinking  is  inex 
cusable  .  .  . 
There  comes  a  moment  when  we  must  out  and  act. 

For  at  the  last 

We  must  pass  thought  through  matter,  giving  it  flesh. 
That  is  the  act  of  creation,  that  only  Life: 
That  is  what  the  world  means  with  its  physical  beauty, 
And  what  our  bodies  mean,  projected,  solid  .  .  . 
Passion  has  become  lips  and  arms,  and  the  billowing 
seas .  .  . 

Many  scholars  have  died  of  this  malady, 

Many  dreamers  have  rotted  in  cloistered  safety, 

Much  of  greatness  has  passed,  still-born  .  . . 


49 


BROTHERHOOD 

IF  you  want  to  find  your  brothers, 
Find  yourself  .  .  . 
You  are  not  a  person;  you  are  a  race  .  .  . 

What  we  see  of  you  is  a  ray  of  light  emanating  from 

the  hidden  skies  within  you  .  .  . 
In  those  skies  humanity  dwells  .  .  . 
Enter  them;  find  your  brothers  .  .  . 

You  shall  find  infinite  love: 

You  shall  be  all  you  see: 

Communion  with  the  grass  and  the  sea-waves  shall  be 

no  harder  than  with  human  beings  .  .  . 
St.  Francis  knew  this:  preaching  to  the  birds. 

Not  alone  in  division  of  food  and  comfort, 

Not  alone  in  bare  Justice  (long  needed,  the  unescapa- 

ble  duty  of  our  age) 
Not  in  these  only  shall  Brotherhood  come  .  .  . 

No,  not  until  you  go  the  ancient  way; 

Way  of  Buddha,  Jesus  and  Isaiah, 

The  long  long  journey,  farther  than  sun  from  earth, 

(So  near,  such  heavens  away)  to  your  own  Soul, 

Shall  dawn  benign  Brotherhood. 

SO 


TRANSFIGURATIONS 

WE  SPAT  on  the  dirt  and  the  flesh 
Through   two   thousand   years   of   soul-sick 
ness  .  .  . 

And  so  the  poor  have  been  with  us, 
And  the  good  people  have  been  vile  lies,  holy  and 
stinking  .  .  . 

Enough  of  this ! 

Glory  is   dirt   converted,    and   magic  is   flesh  trans 
figured  .  . . 

Not  to  the  heavens  we  pray, 

And  not  to  a  white-bearded  God,  tottering  and  old: 

From  no  far  world  does  majesty  descend. 

But  when  we  pray, 

We  pray  to  our  own  selves: 

To  no  stars  outward,  but  to  one  heart  inward: 

The  dusty  despicable  Self  on  the  top 

To  the  sea-vast  world-swelling  Self  underneath .  .  . 

And  in  that  Self  what  is  not? 

There  yawn  the  seven  Hells  seen  of  Dante, 
There  rise  the  circling  Paradises  to  the  sun, 

51 


^Transfigurations 


There  in  the  brimstone  of  lust,  and  fire  of  greed,  and 

ice  of  stormy  passion, 
Purification  goes  on,   and  the  making  of  all  that  is 

high  .  .  . 

Go  kneel  then  in  the  pit  of  your  flesh,  in  the  darkness 

of  the  dirt: 

There  the  wings  grow  and  the  desire  for  the  sky, 
And  the  fury  creative  .  .  . 

Out  of  the  noise  of  the  world  the  musician  shapes  his 

sun-bursts  of  music, 
Out  of  the   loathsome   dirt  the  sculptor  moulds  his 

shapes,  shining,  alive, 

And  out  of  the  raw  desire  of  man  for  woman  arise 
Winged  love  and  the  dream  of  brotherhood  and  cries 

of  the  martyrs  .  .  . 

Look  to  the  flesh:  go  wipe  out  poverty: 
Then  hell  will  be  emptier. 


52 


THE  MILLENNIUM 

ASK  for  no  mild  millennium: 
Our  world  shall  never  be  nobler  than  its  in 
habitants: 
Never  be  nobler  than  you  and  I,  blind  brother. 

What  is  this  world  but  our  secret  natures  opened  and 
stamped  into  cities? 

The  smoke  of  the  mills  is  only  the  vapor  of  our  soft- 
coal  hearts: 

The  slums  of  the  poor  and  the  drab  palaces  of  the  rich 
are  the  filth  of  our  spirits: 

The  curses  of  the  world  are  but  the  unleashed  beast 
in  us  roaming  the  streets. 

Here  and  there  is  one  shining  among  us: 

He  is  not  a  conqueror  of  tools,  but  a  conqueror  of  self: 

He  strides  like  a  sun  in  the  crowds,  and  people  are  glad 

of  him: 

He  did  not  wait  for  a  millennium  to  perfect  him: 
He  did  not  see  the  need  of  sanitation  and  pure  food  to 

help  him  to  a  soul: 
He  wrestled  with  the  antagonist  in  his  own  breast  and 

emerged  victorious. 

53 


TTbe  jfflMUennium 


Give  us  a  hundred  million  such,  and  a  greater  world  is 

upon  us: 
But  give  us  only  a  perfect  world,  and  it  shall  be  a 

coat  that  misfits  us. 
Stagnation  and  sin  shall  be  there  as  surely  as  they  are 

deep  in  our  hearts. 


54 


FUNERALS 

ONE  would  think  the  dead  were  burying  the  living, 
not  the  living  the  dead, 
The  way  we  hold  funerals  .  .  . 
Bah !  my  heart  sickens ! 

Please,  when  I  die,  know  that  I  am  very  well  able  to 

care  for  myself, 

And  that  the  journey  is  mine,  not  yours: 
Then  take  the  refuse  I  left  behind  me 
And  quickly  and  quietly  burn  it  up. 


55 


AT  FORTY 

IT  WAS  you,  the  glowing  youth  that  went  forth 
Conquering  the  world  with  laughter, 
And  radiantly  running  after  visions. 

Now  forty  years  lie  on  you  like  a  frost: 
Disillusionment  is  in  the  very  handshake  you  proffer 

me: 
And  a  crust  of  habits  and  troubles  has  overlaid  you. 

You  call  death  your  friend,  and  think  he  is  long  in 

coming: 

You  have  lost  faith  in  life  and  in  your  own  true  self: 
And  the  failure  of  your  work  enfeebles  your  ambition 

and  effort. 

See  deeper: 

The  real  you  is  that  glowing  youth: 

Pierce  back  to  him. 


56 


THE  BLAME 

YOU  blame  yourself: 
You   writhe   with   remorse   because  you   make 

trouble  for  your  dear  ones: 

And  the  love  you  give  them  seems  but  the  mother  of 
tears  and  sighs. 

But  are  you  to  blame? 

Or  is  it  the  human  predicament? 

You  are  unhappy  yourself:  who  caused  it? 

Do  you  not  know  it  is  hard  for  people  to  live  together? 

The  sun  in  summer  by  merely  swimming  through  the 

skies 

Sends  down  a  scorching  heat: 

Shall  the  sun  therefore  go  weeping  through  the  heavens, 
Remorseful  and  miserable? 
Is  it  the  sun's  fault  that  we  cannot  bear  his  rays? 


57 


CRIME 

HA!  YOU  count  it  horrible  that  the  murder  was 
committed, 
That  the  man  was  killed. 

What  ails  you  ? 

Is  it  the  thought  of  what  happened  to  the  body, 

Or  the  imagined  terror  of  the  victim  ? 

And  yet,  much  nearer  home,  and  quite  invisible, 
With  sharp  knife  of  words,  glances,  and  even  kisses, 
A  slow  still  murder  is  proceeding; 
And  the  victim  has,  not  minutes,  but  years  of  torment. 
Far  more  horrible  than  any  murder  of  the  body 
Is  this  murder  of  the  life. 

Do  you  guess  whom  I  mean? 
Yes,  it  is  you. 


58 


THE  CHILDREN 
I  S  THAT  your  reason ?    The  children?    Their  future? 

Tut!  blow  off  the  foam  of  sentimentality  and  piffle! 
Look  through  the  depths  beneath. 

Somehow  your  child  had  to  come  and  take  the  risk  of 

being  yours: 
The  risk  was  real .  .  . 

Perhaps  you  were  poor,  and  his  environment  dirty  and 

dark: 

Or  you  were  bad-tempered  or  lecherous: 
Or  you  were  the  opposite  of  his  nature  and  would 

oppose  his  growth. 

Now,  tell  me:  what  is  his  future  to  be? 
Built  on  a  father  who  is  a  lie  and  evasion? 
Or  strong  and  true? 

Is  that  last  not  a  risk  worth  taking? 
Is  it  not  part  of  the  risk  of  his  being  born  your  son? 
Truly,  sparing  him  pain  may  be  the  very  way  of  spoil 
ing  his  nature: 

59 


Gbtlfcren 


Give  a  child  credit  for  being  as  human  as  you  are; 
Let  him  share  the  great  fight: 
He  will  thank  you  in  the  end. 


60 


H 


TOO  HUMAN 

OW  many  are  strong  enough  to  reject  riches? 
Not  I,  not  I! 


And  who  can  flee  from  the  poisoned  breath  of  flattery? 
And  who  can  escape  from  the  friends  that  shield  his 

weakness? 
And  who  can  put  away  slothfulness  and  the  lure  of 

women? 
Not  I,  not  I ! 

We  are  too  human,  we  little  ones! 
Praised  be  the  hostile  world 
And  the  scourge  of  need. 


61 


jottings 


NEW-BORN 

~T\EA  TH  and  birth  dog  us: 
•LJ    I  died  only  a  few  days  ago: 
Now,  new-born,  I  send  up  a  cry  of  delight  at  creation: 
The  world  and  I  are  so  unstudied  fresh  .  .  . 


LISTEN 

GO  A  little  aside  from  the  noise  of  the  world: 
Go  near  to  yourself .  .  . 
Listen  .  .  . 

Ah,  music,  pulse-heats  of  Life,  whispers  of  Death  ! 
They  were  there  all  the  time  like  a  brook  that  is  under  the 
ground. 


62 


THE  SEA  IS  ITSELF 

rriHE  sea  is  itself:  it  does  not  fear  to  be  calm  or  stormy, 

•*-      gray  or  gold,  loud  or  soft— 

Why  have  I  feared  to  be  like  the  sea— myself? 


THE  FLAME 

HA  T  is  the  tiny  flame  of  my  match  that  gives  itself 
so  freely  that  soon  it  is  consumed  and  vanishes  ? 


63 


THE  SEA  WHISPERS 

r  j  iHE  sea.  whispers  to  me  of  women  because  I  am  lonely 

J-      for  the  love  of  -women. 
Now  I  hear  the  luring  whispers  of  girls  in  the  rustling 

surf- 
Now  bass  of  men's  voices  furious,  urgent,  and  strong. 


ABREAST  OF  EARTH 

T)  RE  AST  of  earth,  with  all  these  sea-worn  stones, 
••-*     Tumbled  together,  gray,  purple  and  brown,  red  and 

green  and  white, 
What  beauty  within  you  .  .  . 


64 


T 


jottings 


SHH! 

'HE  sea  put  a  finger  of  foam  on  its  lips  of  waves. 
Saying,  "Shb  !  "  saying,  "Hush  !  " 


I  that  was  vexed  and  unquiet, 
Heard,  and  was  soothed. 


TWO  FACES 

SAW  the  unwritten  face  of  the  child 
Reside  the  mother's  trouble-writ  face. 


65 


MASTERS 

I    TAKE  as  my  master,  not  you  nor  myself  nor  the 
past: 
But  Life. 

Every  chain  I  break  is  for  the  sake  of  the  eternal  irons: 
I  snap  the  links  that  bind  me  to  you  and  you: 
I  crack  away  from  the  chaining  appetites  of  myself: 
And    surrender    to    the    manacles    of    the    procreant 
Power  of  the  world. 

Then  am  I  a  careful  instrument  used  ruthlessly: 
Quickly  may  the  tool  break  and  be  shattered: 
The  risk  is  enormous: 

But  better  to  be  a  brief  tool  in  the  hands  of  Power 
Than  be  a  weighty  long-lived  instrument  rusting  in 
your  hands,  my  human  masters. 


66 


TO  THE  PERILOUS  OPEN 

WE,  THAT  are  the  very  waters  of  change, 
Wearied,  seek  the  unchanging: 
We  want  a  rock  under  our  feet. 

A  rock  of  God,  a  rock  of  institutions, 
A  rock  of  indissoluble  marriage: 
The  absolute. 

And  it  does  not  matter  if  the  rock  has  a  nest  of  snakes 

upon  it, 

And  is  slimy  and  slippery,  betraying  our  feet .  .  . 
There  will  we  stand,  there  will  we  suffer:  our  Rock! 

But  I — I  will  to  my  own,  to  the  kin  of  my  spirit: 

I,  the  waters  of  change,  will  give  myself  to  Life,  that 
sea  in  flux, 

To  the  vast  variety,  to  the  perilous  open,  to  the  sting 
ing  salt: 

Strength  must  one  have  to  swim:  and  I  shall  grow 
strong  with  the  sea. 


67 


BEREFT 

WHO  can  measure  the  agony  of  man? 
There  seem  too  many  of  us: 
Too  many  millions:  too  great  a  multitude  of  needy 

beings: 

Too  myriad-hearted  a  need  .  .  . 

What  sun,  what  rain  shall  feed  this  human  grass  of  the 
Earth  ? 

Alas!  in  the  crowd  I  come  and  go,  confused  and 
wandering: 

1  cannot  see  a  meaning  in  the  tumult  and  disaster: 

I  cannot  guess  a  triumphant  purpose  in  this  pinch  of 
man-dust  on  this  hidden  planet .  .  . 

As  the  street-crowds  run  from  my  bereaved  spirit, 

So  crowds  of  the  stars  rush  past,  heedless  of  our 
trouble  .  .  . 

Yet  it  goes  on: 

Yet  we  have  clothes  on  our  back  and  food  for  our 
mouth, 

And  a  thousand  creeds  pronounce  their  rival  revela 
tions, 

And  stout-hearted  we  go  forth  to  fight  in  the  morning 

And  lay  us  down  at  night,  spent,  spent .  .  . 

68 


bereft 

All  day  they  carry  out  the  dead  from  the  city,  and  all 

day  the  cry  of  the  new-born  echoes  behind  the 

walls . .  . 
Youth  is  broken  on  the  streets  and  the  lovers  part  and 

the  married  hate  and  long  for  an  ending: 
Child  against  mother,  son  against  father,  the  strong 

at  the  throats  of  the  weak: 
And  every  generation  the  annihilator  of  the  generation 

that  brought  it  to  birth  .  .  . 

Havoc  and  disaster, 

And  a  going  down  to  graves  and  a  last  dissolution: 

And  the  bleak  winds  of  November  blowing  up  from 

the  seas, 
And  the  Earth  dismantled  and  dying,  dying  .  .  . 

I  that  found  thee  in  my  soul  and  in  the  radiance  of  the 

sun, 

Hide  now  alone,  bereft:  cut  off: 
A  few  pounds  of  human  trouble: 
A  little  wisp  of  darkness: 
A  fleck  of  shadow  on  immensity. 


69 


TASTING  THE  EARTH 
T  N  A  DARK  hour,  tasting  the  Earth. 

As  I  lay  on  my  couch  in  the  muffled  night,  and  the  rain 

lashed  my  window, 
And  my  forsaken  heart  would  give  me  no  rest,  no 

pause  and  no  peace, 
Though  I  turned  my  face  far  from  the  wailing  of  my 

bereavement .  .  . 

Then  I  said:  I  will  eat  of  this  sorrow  to  its  last  shred, 
I  will  take  it  unto  me  utterly, 

I  will  see  if  I  be  not  strong  enough  to  contain  it ... 
What  do  I  fear?     Discomfort? 
How  can  it  hurt  me,  this  bitterness? 

The  miracle,  then! 

Turning  toward  it,  and  giving  up  to  it, 

I  found  it  deeper  than  my  own  self  .  .  . 

O  dark  great  mother-globe  so  close  beneath  me  ... 

It  was  she  with  her  inexhaustible  grief, 

Ages  of  blood-drenched  jungles,  and  the  smoking  of 

craters,  and  the  roar  of  tempests, 
And  moan  of  the  forsaken  seas, 

70 


Ube  Bartb 


It  was  she  with  the  hills  beginning  to  walk  in  the  shapes 

of  the  dark-hearted  animals, 
It  was  she  risen,  dashing  away  tears  and  praying  to 

dumb  skies,  in  the  pomp-crumbling  tragedy  of 

man  .  .  . 
It  was  she,  container  of  all  griefs,  and  the  buried  dust 

of  broken  hearts, 
Cry  of  the  christs  and  the  lovers  and  the  child-stripped 

mothers, 
And  ambition  gone  down  to  defeat,  and  the  battle 

overborne, 
And  the  dreams  that  have  no  waking  .  .  . 

My  heart  became  her  ancient  heart: 

On  the  food  of  the  strong  I  fed,  on  dark  strange  life 

itself: 
Wisdom-giving  and  sombre  with  the  unremitting  love 

of  ages . .  . 

There  was  dank  soil  in  my  mouth, 

And  bitter  sea  on  my  lips, 

In  a  dark  hour,  tasting  the  Earth. 


71 


RENUNCIATION 

HAVE  we  given  up  thy  spell,  Renunciation? 
Do  we  dream  that  we  can  be  born  without  first 

dying  ? 
That  joy  comes  with  no  pain? 

Once  the  world  heard  thy  lips  crying:   "Renounce! 

renounce!" 

Oh,  calm-eyed  winged  one  that  hovers  near  us  ... 
But  now  they  preach  of  the  unalloyed  pleasures  of 

the  faithful, 
And  of  the  gains  that  fly  to  the  needy  soul  all  effortless! 

Yet  do  I  know  that  desiring  my  dearest  friend, 

I  did  not  have  him  till  I  went  from  him, 

Lonely  for  his  sake  through  a  month  of  days  .  .  . 

Yet  do  I  know  how  songs  are  written  .  .  . 
The  singer  moves  away  from  faces, 
He  goes  from  blessed  comfort  to  cold  agony, 
Putting  away  the  man  in  him  to  be  the  poet .  .  . 

Yet  do  I  know  of  a  mother  (so  of  all  mothers) 
Who  could  not  have  the  child  biding  in  her  womb 

72 


IRenunciation 


Till,  shrieking,  she  had  given  him  up, 

And  from  her  body  the  small  new  life  was  sundered 

Then  in  her  arms  she  held  him:  he  was  hers  . 


73 


WE  DEAD 

WHEN  from  the  brooding  home, 
The  silent  immemorial  love-house, 
The  beloved  body  of  the  mother  in  her  travail, 
Naked,  the  little  one  comes  and  wails  at  the  world's 

bleak  weather, 
We  say  that  on  Earth  and  to  us  a  child  has  been 

born  .  .  . 
But  now  we  move  with  unhalting  pace  toward  the 

dark  evening, 

And  toward  the  cold  lengthening  shadow, 
And  quick  we  avert  our  fearful  eyes  from  the  strange 

event, 

The  burial  and  the  bourne  .  .  . 
That  leaving  home:  the  end  .  .  .     Death  .  .  . 

Are  these  then  birth  and  death? 

Does  the  cut  of  a  cord  bring  life  and  dust  to  dust 

expunge  it? 
If  so,  what  are  we  then,  we  dead? 

For,  in  the  cities, 

And  dark  on  the  lonely  farms,  and  waifs  on  the  ocean, 

As  a  harrying  of  wind,  as  an  eddying  of  dust, 

74 


We  Deafc 


We  dead,  in  our  soft  shining  bodies  that  are  combed 
and  are  kissed, 

Are  ghosts  fleeing  from  the  inescapable  hell  of  our 
selves  .  .  . 

We  are  even  as  beetles  skating  over  the  waters  of  our 

own  darkness, 

Even  as  beetles,  darting  and  restless, 
But  the  depths  dark  and  void  .  .  . 

We  have  found  no  peace,  no  peace:  though  our  en 
gines  are  crafty: 

What  avail  wings  to  the  flier  in  the  skies 

While  his  dead  soul  like  an  anchor  drags  on  the  Earth? 

And  what  avails  lightning  darting  a  man's  voice,  linking 
the  cities, 

While  in  the  booth  he  is  the  same  varnished  clod, 

And  his  soul  flies  not  after? 

And  what  avails  it  that  the  body  of  man  has  waxed 
mammoth 

Limbed  with  the  lightning  and  the  steam, 

While  his  spirit  remains  a  torment  and  a  trifle, 

And  gaining  the  world,  profits  nothing? 

Self-murdered,  self-slain,  the  dead  cumber  the  Earth  .  .  . 
And  how  did  they  die? 

A  boy  was  born  in  the  pouring  radiance  of  creative 

magic: 
And  with  pulses  of  music  he  was  born  .  . . 

75 


Tide  H>ea£> 


Of  himself  he  might  have  been  shaping  a  song-winged 

poet .  .  . 

But  he  was  afraid  .  .  . 
He  feared  the  gaunt  garret  of  starvation  and  the  lonely 

years  in  his  soul's  desert, 
And  he  feared  to  be  a  jest  and  a  fool  before  his 

friends .  .  . 

Now  he  clerks,  the  slave  .  .  . 
And  the  magic  is  slimed  with  disastrous  opiates  of  the 

Night. 

A  girl  was  bathed  with  the  lissome  beauty  of  the  seeker 

of  love, 

The  call  of  the  animals  one  to  another  in  the  Spring, 
The  desire  of  the  captive  woman  in  her  heart,  as  she 

ran  and  leaped  on  the  hills; 
But  the  imprisoned   beast's  cry  terrified  her  as  she 

looked  out  over  the  love-quiet  of  the  modern 

world  .  .  . 
Yet  she  desired  to  take  this  man-lure  and  release  it 

into  loveliness, 
Become  a  dancer,  lulling  with  witchcraft  of  her  young 

body  the  fevered  world  .  .  . 
But  no,  her  mother  spied  here  a  wickedness .  .  . 
Shamefully  she  submitted,  making  a  smouldering  in 
ferno  of  the  hidden  Nymph  in  her  soul, 
And  so  died. 

A  woman  was  made  body  and  heart  for  the  beautiful 
love-life . . . 

76 


ZKfle  H>eat> 


But  of  the  mother-miracle, 

How  the  cry  of  a  troubled  child  whitens  the  red  pas 
sions, 

She  did  not  know  .  .  . 

Fear  of  poverty  corrupted  her:  she  chose  a  fool  that 
her  heart  hated, 

And  now  through  him  no  release  for  her  native  pas 
sions, 

But  only  a  spending  of  her  loathsome  fury  on  adorn 
ment  and  luxury  .  .  . 

Ah,  dead  glory!  and  the  heart  sick  with  betrayal! 

There  is  no  grace  for  the  dead,  save  to  be  born  again: 
Engines  shall  not  drag  us  from  the  grave, 
Nor  wine  nor  meat  revive  us. 

For  our  thirst  is  a  thirst  no  liquor  can  reach  nor  slake, 
And  our  hunger  a  hunger  by  no  bread  filled  .  .  . 
The  waters  we  crave  bubble  up  from  the  springs  of  life, 
And  the  bread  we  would   break  comes   down  from 
invisible  hands. 

We  dead!    awake! 

Kiss  the  beloved  past  goodby, 

Go  leave  the  love-house  of  the  betrayed  self, 

And  through  the  dark  of  birth  go  and  enter  the  soul's 

bleak  weather  .  .  . 

And  I,  I  will  not  stay  dead,  though  the  dead  cling  to  me, 
I  will  put  away  the  kisses  and  the  soft  embraces  and 

the  walls  that  encompass  me, 

77 


We 


And  out  of  this  womb  I  will  surely  move  to  the  world 

of  my  spirit .  .  . 

I  will  lose  my  life  to  find  it,  as  of  old, 
Yea,  I  will  turn  from  the  life-lie  I  lived  to  the  truth  I 

was  wrought  for, 
And  I  will  take  the  creator  within,  sower  of  the  seed 

of  the  race, 
And  make  him  a  god,  shaper  of  civilization  .  .  . 

Now  on  my  soul's  imperious  surge, 
Taking  the  risk,  as  of  death,  and  in  deepening  twilight, 
I  ride  on  the  darkening  flood  and  go  out  on  the  waters 
Till  over  the  tide  comes  music,  till  over  the  tide  the 

breath 

Of  the  song  of  my  far-off  soul  is  wafted  and  blown, 
Murmuring  commandments  .  .  . 

Storm  and  darkness!    I  am  drowned  in  the  torrent! 
I   am  moving  forth  irrevocably  from  the  sheltering 

womb! 

I  am  naked  and  little! 
Oh,  cold  of  the  world,  and  lights  blinding,  and  space 

terrifying! 
Now  my  cry  goes  up  and  the  wailing  of  my  helpless 

soul: 
Mother,  my  mother! 

Lo,  then,  the  mother  eternal! 

78 


TOle 


In  my  opening  soul  the  footfall  of  her  fleeting  tread, 
And  the  song  of  her  voice  piercing  and  sweet  with 

love  of  me, 
And  the  enwinding  of  her  arms  and  adoring  of  her 

breath, 

And  the  milk  of  her  plenty! 
Oh,  Life,  of  which  I  am  part;  Life,  from  the  depths  of 

the  heavens, 
That  ascended  like  a  water-spring  into  David  of  Asia 

on  the  eastern  hills  in  the  night, 
That  came  like  a  noose  of  golden  shadow  on  Joan  in 

the  orchard, 
That   gathers  all  life:   the  binding   of  brothers  into 

sheaves: 

That  of  old,  kneelers  in  the  dust 
Named,  glorying:  Allah,  Jehovah,  God. 


79 


II 

WE  LIVING 


THE   MAN  SPEAKS 

From  "The  Beloved" 

YOU  and  I  in  the  night,  spied  on  by  stars  .  .  . 
You  and  I  in  the  beloved  night .  .  . 
You  and  I  within  these  walls. 

A  breath  from  the  sea  is  kissing  the  housetops  of  the 

city, 

Kissing  the  roofs, 
And  dying  into  silence. 

Earth  and  stars  are  in  a  trance, 

They  dream  of  passion,  but  cannot  break  their  sleep. 

They  pass  into  us,  and  we  are  their  passion,  we  are 

their  madness, 

So  shaped  that  we  can  kiss  and  clasp  .  .  . 
One  kiss,  then  death,  the  miracle  being  spent. 

Watchman,  what  of  the  night? 

Sleep  and  birth!     Toil  and  death! 

Now  the  light  of  the  topmost  tower  winks  red  and 

ceases: 

Now  the  lonely  car  echoes  afar  off  ... 
Helen  looked  over  the  wine-dark  seas  of  Greece,  and 

she  was  young. 

83 


Speafes 


But  not  younger  than  we,  touching  each  other,  while 
dawn  delays  . . . 

Dare  we  betray  this  moment? 
Dare  we  die,  missing  this  fire? 
Whither  goes  massive  Earth  tonight,  flying  with  the 

stars  down  eternity? 
We  are  alive:  we  are  for  each  other. 


84 


THE  WOMAN  SPEAKS 

From  "The  Beloved1' 

OH,  MY  being,  opening  into  the  dazzle  of  sunrise! 
Where  are  you  blowing  me,  trumpets? 
What  blast  of  music  am  I,  striding  the  wind? 

I  took  the  hand  of  my  beloved,  and  I  was  satisfied. 
I  kissed  his  lips,  and  the  stone  of  my  heart  became 

a  song. 
I  kissed  his  lips,  and  was  born  again. 

Love,  now  I  know  thee! 

I  have  looked  into  thine  eyes,  Splendor: 

I  have  kissed  thy  lips,  golden  boy  . .  . 

Bear  me  to  the  ends  of  the  earth, 
Drown  me  in  oceans, 
Crush  me  beneath  granite  mountains: 
I  give  all,  I  render  myself  up, 

O  thou,  that  art  the  breath  of  life:  the  whisper  on  the 
deeps. 


85 


BELOVED 

L3VE: 
To  approach  you  with  the  touch  the  sculptor 

gives  his  clay, 
Subdued,  inspired: 

To  catch  in  the  radiance  of  my  heart  the  purity  of  yours, 
White  breathless  fires: 
To  let  the  still  sea  of  song  in  my  spirit  move  toward  its 

shore,  your  soul, 
With  dying  music:       (Oh,  hear  me,  adored  one!) 

Love: 

To  watch  as  one  watches  the  face  of  the  beloved 

coming  out  of  death, 
Every  wavering  of  your  lashes: 
To  feel  each  fluctuation  of  your  yearning  and  your 

desire, 

And  meet  it  with  caresses: 
To  enfold  you  gently  until  your  whole  soul  slides  into 

mine, 
Conquering  me  with  submission:     (Adored  one,  hear 

me!) 

Love: 

To  meet  the  dawn  together  and  the  widening  light, 

86 


3Beiov>eE> 

Seas  in  our  hearts  sounding, 

To  take  from  a  kiss  the  glory  of  a  dawn  in  our  spirits, 

And  the  arousal  to  living: 

To  rise  from  each  other's  arms  magnified  and  mighty, 

Heroic  and  human:     (Adored  one,  hear  me!) 

Such  may  our  love  be:  such  be  our  passion,  beloved. 


87 


ANNIE 

IN  THE  fragrance  of  her  simple  heart  I  still  bathe  my 
self: 

For  Annie  was  a  girl  of  the  people, 
With  eyes  of  the  clearest  brown, 
And  a  voice  low  and  sweet. 

Her  blushes  were  quick  as  her  tears: 

And  the  caress  of  her  hand,   and  the  "ah!"  as  she 

sighed, 

Thinking  she  had  offended, 
Were  as  echoes  of  moonlit  waters  on  a  far  shore . .  . 

Something  breathed  from  her  as  deep  of  the  womanly 

as  the  Earth  itself: 
I  dreamt  of  hay  in  the  barn,  and  slopes  of  daisies 

beside  the  road, 
And  the  kitchen  scoured  and  shining,  and  the  hearth 

gleaming  in  the  night: 

Something  so  old  and  new,  so  common  and  magic: 
For  Annie  was  a  girl  of  the  people, 
A  darling  of  the  Earth. 

She  said:  "I  am  lonely,  too  .  . . 

I  live  in  a  room  by  myself  and  work  in  the  day .  .  . 

88 


Bnnte 

Three   months    back    my    mother    died,    leaving   me 
lonely.  .  ." 

"Ah,"  she  said,   "your  brown  eyes  now!"     And  she 

laughed,  and  we  kissed  .  .  . 

And  over  her  face  came  a  glow  as  her  eyes  met  mine, 
And  her  deep  glance  pierced  me  .  . . 

"Soon  as  you're  gone,"  she  said,  "you'll  be  forgetting 

me: 

And  you'll  take  to  the  next  woman  you  ever  meet, 
And  you'll  kiss  her  like  you  kiss  me  ... 
But  I'll  not  be  forgetting  you  ever  in  my  life: 
And  how  we  met,  and  came  up  the  stoop,  and  kissed 

behind  the  door  .  .  ." 

"So,"  she  sighed,  holding  me  close  by  the  hand, 
"Go  now:  what'll  I  think  of  myself  letting  you  kiss  me? 
It's  my  fault,  sure:  I'd  never  be  blaming  you  .  .  . 
Goodnight,"    she  sighed,    and    we    kissed,    and    she 
watched  me  go. 

Out  of  the  Earth  spring  natural  simple  flowers: 
Out  of  the  people  come  simple  natural  women: 
Annie,  one  of  the  sweetest. 


89 


THE  LOVE-HOUR 

WHERE  may  she  of  the  hall  bedroom  hold  the 
love-hour? 
In  what  sweet  privacy  find  her  soul  before  the  face  of 

the  beloved? 

And  the  kiss  that  lifts  her  from  the  noise  of  the  shop, 
And  the  bitter  carelessness  of  the  streets? 
Neither  is  there  garden  nor  secret  parlor  for  her: 
And  cruel  winter  has  spoiled  the  shores  of  the  sea; 
The  benches  in  the  park  are  laden  with  melting  snow, 
And  the  bedroom  forbidden  . . . 

But  ah,  the  love  of  a  woman!    She  will  not  be  cheated! 
Up  the  stoop  she  went  to  the  vestibule  of  the  house, 
And  beckoned  to  me  to  come  to  that  darkness  of 

doors: 
Here  in  a  crevice  of  the  public  city  the  love-hour  was 

spent .  .  . 

Outside  rumbled  the  cars  between  drifts  of  the  gas-lit 

snow, 

And  the  footsteps  fell  of  the  wanderers  in  the  night .  .  . 
Within,  the  dark  house  slept .  .  . 

90 


TTbe  %o\>e*3Hour 


But  we,  in  our  little  cave,  stood,  and  saw  in  the  gleam 
ing-  dark 

Shine  of  each  other's  eyes,  and  the  flutter  of  wisps  of 
hair, 

And  our  words  were  breathlessly  sweet,  and  our  kisses 
silent .  .  . 

Where  is  there  rose-garden, 

Where  is  there  balcony  among  the  cedars  and  pines, 
Where  is  there  moonlit  clearing  in  the  dumb  wilderness, 
Enchanted  as  this  doorway,  dark  in  the  glare  of  the 
city? 


91 


A  WOMAN  FOR  THE  ADVENTURE 

I    WANT  a  woman  for  the  adventure: 
And  my  demands  are  monstrous,  never  to  be 
met .  . . 

For  I  want  first  the  body  that  slopes  like  a  wave  of  the 

sea  toward  my  senses: 
And  whose  desire  is  for  me,  my  least  kiss  fetching  the 

answering  glow: 
And  whose  face,  pensive  in  the  twilight,  sends  my  mind 

back  to  the  legend  of  women, 
And  whose  coming  and  going  is  as  the  footfall  of  the 

wind  on  a  summer's  night, 
And  whose  words  drop  between  pauses  of  music  gentle 

and  piercing, 
And  who  gives  herself  in  the  wish  of  children. 

But  that  is  not  all:  oh,  not  more  than  a  fragment  of 

what  I  demand: 

I  want  her  to  be  the  mother  of  my  hours  of  weakness: 
Quick  will  be  the  intuition  searching  to  my  need  and 

my  cry: 
Gentle  the  healing  of  those  caressing  hands,  breath  of 

that  soothing  voice: 
Deep  will  be  the  love  that  makes  me  whole  again. 

92 


B  Woman  jfor  ZIbe  Hfcventure 


And  yet  more  I  ask:  insatiate  man  that  I  am: 

I  want  the  comrade  free  and  supple-hearted  as  a  man, 

Who  puts  on  her  boots  and  her  khaki  and  goes  out 

with  me  on  the  holiday  morning, 
And  away  we  tramp  on  a  lark,  young  vagrants  both: 
And  she  will  swim,  and  sleep  on  the  ground,  and  climb 

up  the  mountains, 
Yea,  she  will  up,  at  a  moment's  notice,  and  be  off  to 

strange  cities, 
And  take  the  peril  and  the  joy  of  strange  lands  and 

strange  people. 
And  she  will  be  willing  to  live  without  me  when  she 

sends  me  off  on  some  journey. 

Yet  demand  worst  of  all:  and  paradox  quaint: 

As  I  stand  father  to  the  children  of  her  body, 

I  want  the  woman  who  stands  father  to  the  children 

of  my  spirit: 
Yea,  she  who  comes  to  her  fulfillment  through  my 

vision  and  my  works: 

She  who  impregnates  my  soul  with  seed  of  her  spirit, 
Until  there  grows  the  life  that  through  mighty  travail 

is  born: 
Our  works:  our  child! 

Ah,   you  will   say:   not  a  woman,   but  a  goddess  I 

demand: 
Ah,  you  will  tell  me  I  am  monstrous,  and  so  will  not 

find  her: 

93 


H  Woman  jf or  Ube  Bov>enture 


Yet,  out  with  the  truth  of  it!    Such  are  the  cravings  of 

men: 
Such  the  woman  I  want  for  the  adventure! 


94 


WHEN  A  WOMAN  IS  WANTED 

WHEN  a  woman  is  wanted, 
What  is  the  printed  page,  that  I  can  idle  over 

it, 
And  what  the  street,  that  I  can  wander  it  through? 

The  kiss  in  imagination  is  but  whiskey .  .  . 
It  makes  the  thirst  rage .  .  . 

The  dream  of  caresses  and  whispering  love  is  but  a 
beckoner  forth  from  the  prison-cell .  .  . 

I  want,  not  an  image,  but  flesh  and  blood, 

Not  words  in  a  book,  but  words  that  come  living  from 

human  lips, 
Not  an  exquisite  description,  but  a  raw  sight  actual 

and  near . .  . 
Not  an  aching  armful  of  air,  but  a  crowded  armful  of 

resisting  and  surrendering  woman  .  .  . 
Lips  that  my  own  can  be  pressed  against  in  strong  kisses, 
Hair  to  fall  down  on  my  shoulders  and  tease  me  with 

its  odour  of  sun-warmed  pine-needles, 
Eyes  that  can  light  and  dim,  fluctuating  to  the  words 

and  glances  I  send  her  .  .  . 
Oh,  one  here,  now,  close  to  me,  mine,  as  I  hers. 


Wben  a  IKHoman  Us  Mante& 


How  can  I  conjure  you  up  from  the  millions  in  this 

city? 
Somewhere  you  sit,  dreaming,  and  empty,  and  sad  . .  . 

Oh,  how  many  thousands  like  myself  brood  in  their 

lonely  rooms  and  wish? 
Girls  and  youths  parted  by  narrow  walls? 
And  who  shall  go  seeking  and  who  shall  be  found 

tonight? 


96 


FOLK-HUNGER 

FIERCE  hunger  has  come  upon  me, 
And  neither  meat  nor  wine  can  stay  me .  . . 
I  am  starved  for  men  and  women. 

I  want  to  go  where  the  crowd  is  thickest, 

Where  the  spot-light  man  colors  the  graceful  favorite 

on  the  stage  with  green,  then  gold,  then  violet . .  . 
Where  the  audience  roars  at  the  jocose  comedian  and 

the  strong  stout  woman  .  .  . 
Where  I  will  be  accepted,  not  by  the  Earth,  but  by  my 

fellows. 
Sinking   back  into   rough  good   commonness,   just  a 

laugher  and  idler  myself, 
Warming  the   hands   and   heart   of   my  soul   at   the 

blazing  hearth  of  the  people  .  .  . 

Tomorrow,  business  with  the  lordly  Earth, 
Sessions  with  my  Self  in  aching  privacy .  .  . 
Tonight,  crowds,  lights,  gayety, 
The  cockles  of  my  heart  roasted  as  crisp  as  nuts, 
And  my  lung-bellows  roaring  in  the  jolly  brotherhood 
of  the  world. 


97 


ON  THE  WAY  TO  HELL 

I    AM  so  happy  these  days 
That  beyond  a  doubt  I  shall  soon  be  booted  out  of 
heaven! 

Long  was  the  fall  of  Satan 

And  the  landing  dull  and  unpleasant. 

Yet: 

I  lie  and  laugh  at  life: 

I  cannot  get  out  of  bed,  for  very  delight: 

And  I  say:    Though  you  wait  for  me,  Hell, 

I  shall  laugh  all  the  way  to  your  gates. 


98 


WHAT  face  lifts,  so  perfect  in  profile? 
Who  speaks  to  the  young  men  at  the  table? 
Is  it  Minerva  slipped  from  her  marble? 

But  what  do  the  young  men  see? 

One  calls:     "Hey!  kid!  butter-cakes  and  coffee!" 

Curious,  how  very  blind  these  eaters  can  be! 


99 


IN  TALK  WITH  A  PROSTITUTE 

I    AM  no  sorrier  for  you  than  I  am  for  myself: 
We  are  both  human  beings  .  .  . 
Alas!  both  of  us  have  come  through  the  gates  of  the 

dark 

And  thither  return  .  .  . 
Why  should  we  pity  each  other  here  in  the  night? 


100 


THE  CUP  OF  DEW 

LATE,  and  lonely,  and  faint  for  sleep, 
I  yet  will  pause  and  have  silence, 
That  the  thirsty  one,  my  soul, 
May  open  to  the  night 
And  drink  the  dew  .  .  . 

I  know  that  the  day  was  wasted,  many-tongued. 

In  noise  and  dust  I  stifled: 

Over  me  passed  a  wind  of  words,  and  the  world  reeled. 

But  now  I  am  alone  .  .  . 

Now  space,  and  silence,  and  my  body  and  I 

Bathed  in  beloved  night .  .  . 

Dew  of  the  stars  and  of  the  ether  and  earth, 

Dew  of  my  soul, 

Fall  into  the  cup  of  my  beseeching  hands, 

That  I  may  put  thee  to  my  lips 

And  drink  the  waters  of  great  healing. 


101 


THE  LONELY  CHILD 

DO  YOU  think,  my  boy,  that  when  I  put  my  arms 
around  you, 
To  still  your  fears, 
That  it  is  I  that  conquer  the  dark  and  the  lonely  night? 

My  arms  seem  to  wrap  love  about  you, 
As  your  little  heart  fluttering  at  my  breast 
Throbs  love  through  me  ... 

But,  dear  one,  it  is  not  your  father: 
Other  arms  are  about  you,  drawing  you  near, 
And  drawing  the  Earth  near,  and  the  Night  near, 
And  your  father  near  .  .  . 

Some  day  you  shall  lie  alone  at  nights, 

As  now  your  father  lies: 

And  in  those  arms,  as  a  leaf  fallen  on  a  tranquil  stream, 

Drift  into  dreams  and  healing  sleep. 


102 


NOT  OVERLOOKED 

THOUGH  I  am  little  as  all  little  things, 
Though  the  stars  that  pass  over  my  tininess  are 

as  the  sands  of  the  sea, 

Though  the  garment  of  the  night  was  made  for  a  sky- 
giant  and  does  not  fit  me, 
Though  even  in  a  city  of  men  I  am  as  nothing, 
Yet   at  times  the  gift  of  life  is  almost  more  than  1  can 

bear .  .  . 

I  laugh  with  joyousness:  the  morning  is  a  blithe  holiday: 
And  in  the  overrunning  of  my  hardy  bliss  praise  rises 
for  the  very  breath  1  breathe. 

How  soaked  the  universe  is  with  life: 
Not  a  cranny  but  is  drenched: 
Ah,  not  even  I  was  overlooked! 


103 


THE  NEW  BABE 

THE  BABE  is  the  beautifully  cunning  dust  that  desires 
and  breathes, 
And  through  the  soft  pink  of  his  body  sing  limpid  sweet 

tides  of  life, 

And  at  the  light  he  is  staring  with  wide  blue  eyes, 
unquestioning. 

Oh,  unawakened  wonder!  unopened  blossom! 

There  I  leaned,  even  so  in  my  marvelous  flesh, 

But  I  and  this  body  of  mine  were  also  as  a  pellet  of  dust 

Dropped  into  gulfs  of  bathing  light; 

I,  flower,  drenched  in  the  sunlight  of  the  spirit, 

In  the  spacious  morning  of  the  soul .  .  . 

Divine  is  the  unfolding  and  wonderful  the   opening 

petals 
Of  the  babe  in  the  storm  and  sun  of  the  nourishing 

years. 


104 


HAD  I  THE  WINGS 

AH,  HAD  I  the  wings  now, 
Wings   of  the   mounting  condor  to   clear  the 

clouds, 

Clear  the  heavy  clouds  and  soar  to  the  day-dying  sun, 
To  the  sun,  beyond  these  streets, 
To  the  sun,  beyond  this  lash  of  the  winter  rains .  .  . 

But  the  day  lags,  binding  me: 

The  day  lags  and  my  pent-up  heart  beats  at  its  bars, 

At  its  prison-bars  beats,  captive  and  dark. 

Ah,  had  I  the  fire  now,  had  I  the  joy  now,  had  I  the 

wings  now 

To  clear  the  clouds  of  my  rain-swept  soul, 
And  soar  in  the  heavens,  sun-bathed. 


105 


B 


THE  BODY 
ODY,  whence  come  mind  and  soul? 


"Ah,"  said  the  Body,  "from  me: 

I  am  a  tree,  and  mind  and  soul  are  the  fruit .  .  . 

Ages  of  fecund  weather  and  nourishing  dark  experience, 

And  the  strong  sun  of  love  and  hate, 

And  rain  of  gray  adversity, 

Have  begotten  at  last,  you,  loved  wonder  immortal!" 

If  this  be  so,  my  body, 

I  shall  despise  you  no  longer:  but  revere  you  and  watch 

over  you: 
Flood-gate  of  the  race:  and  shores  of  my  sea  of  spirit. 


106 


THE  SUN-CHILDREN 

FAR  from  the  sun  over  the  ages  and  the  spaces  of 
the  sky, 

We  children  have  come  .  .  . 
Far  from  the  sun  by  strange  spirals,  and  long  trances 

and  struggles, 

When  we  lay  a  seed  in  the  mud  of  a  steaming  Earth, 
When  we  swam  in  the  waters  of  hushed  creation, 
When  we  crawled  out  and  dwelt  on  the  land,  in  the 

grasses  and  thickets, 

When  we  swung  from  the  trees  of  the  jungle, 
When   at   last  we   arose   and   stepped   forth   on   the 

immense  pilgrimage  of  man  .  .  . 
None  may  count  even  by  millions  the  ages 
Since  far  from  the  sun 
And  over  the  spaces  and  whirled  in  the  skies, 
We  children  have  come. 


Whence,  our  yearning  back, 

Our  yearning  for  the  sun  that  at  dusk  sinks  into  the 

womb  of  the  waters, 
And  at  morn  is  born  from  the  bath  of  the  eastern 

sea . . . 

107 


Uhe 


Our  yearning  for  the  peace  and  stillness  of  the  sky 

before  the  Earth  was  conceived, 
Our  yearning  for  the  mother  in  the  heavens  and  we  but 

a  flake  of  her  living  fires. 


108 


SUN,   WITH  A  MILLION   EYES 

SUN,  with  a  million  eyes:  spyer  of  every  window 
toward  the  east. 
Sun,  that  scorches  our  faces. 
Sun :  light  and  fire  .  .  . 

The  flame  you  jet  begets  life: 
All  has  risen  from  sun-fire  .  .  . 

I  too  was  sun-fire  .  .  . 

The  sun  is  in  me:  I  jet  him  forth  into  a  new  genera 
tion:  into  speech,  love,  labor. 

The  sun  rises  and  sets,  and  then  arises  again. 
I  rise  and  set,  and  my  child  rises  again. 

Thy  fires  in  a  woman  and  in  a  man  draw  one  to  the 

other: 

In  thy  radiance  we  behold  each  other, 
Or  when  the  moon  snatches  handfuls  of  thy  glory 

across  the  night 

And  spills  thy  stolen  beams  upon  the  city, 
There  do  we  see  but  wanly  one  another. 


109 


ONE  FLESH 

IF  MARRIAGE  is  to  be  one  flesh,  this  twain  made  one, 
Then  I  am  married  to  the  multitudinous  world: 
1  have  passed  through  the  hills  and  the  sea,  and  they 

through  me: 
Star-light  and   sun-light  have  drenched  me,   nestling 

under  my  skin: 
Yea,  I  have  eaten  of  the  sun  when  I  have  eaten  of  the 

fruits  of  the  field: 
And  I  have  drunk  deep  of  the  ocean  .  .  . 

All  parts  of  my  body  have  been  elsewhere: 

In  other  people:  or  in  the  grasses:  or  in  the  cow  and 

tiger: 
Continually  the  stars  rain  their  rays  into  the  meadows 

whereof  I  taste: 
I  am  a  meeting  place  for  the  tides  of  the  waters  of  the 

world  .  .  . 

No  wonder  then  I  feel  so  at  home: 
That  love  goes  from  me  to  all  creation: 
I  am  only  loving  myself. 


110 


AT  HOME 

THE  world  is  wild, 
And  it  is  a  stormy  world — how  the  stars  burn ! 
How  the  sea  rages! 

Every  atom  is  fighting  for  itself:  in  tempest  and  fire! 
Tameless  and  wild! 

But  I  too  am  wild:  real  child  of  this  gypsy  Mother  .  .  . 
And  so  at  home,  at  home  in  the  blast  of  the  embattled 
hours . 


Ill- 


I  COULD  WRITE  THE  PSALMS  AGAIN 

I    COULD  write  the  psalms  again, 
I  could  raise  on  high  a  voice  of  thanksgiving, 
I  could  pace  the  eastern  hills  and  bid  the  gates  lift, 
Bid  the  gates  lift  that  usher  the  dawn  of  the  spirit .  .  . 
For  my  joy  is  the  joy  unbidden,  welling  from  the  heart, 
The  joy  of  the  Life  that  springs  of  itself  from  the 

inmost  recesses 
When  in  still  loneliness  self  meets  with  self. 


112 


PRAISE 

WHAT  song  shall  I  sing  to  the  heavens? 
My  heart  is  bounding  with  music: 
I  want  to  pour  out  my  praise  to  the  everlasting  heights: 
For  the  gift  of  life  is  apparent:  as  with  wings  I  am  lifted: 
And  the  love  of  my  heart  goes  forth  to  the  ends  of  the 

Earth, 
And  I  gather  the  folk  in  my  arms,  and  for  marvel  of 

life 
Want  to  chant  to  the  heavens  praise  for  the  gift  and 

the  glory. 


113 


DANCERS 

I   HAVE  a  notion  tonight,  that  the  Earth  and  I,  locked 
in  each  other's  arms, 
Are  dancing  madly  through  the  skies 
Overcome  with  the  sublimity  of  life, 
While  those  whirling  dervishes,  the  speedy  suns, 
Pause  to  behold  us . 


114 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE 

STARLESS  and  still  .  .  . 
Who  stopped  this  heart? 
Who  bound  this  city  in  a  trance? 

With  open  eyes  the  sleeping  houses  stare  at  the  Park: 
And    among    nude    boughs    the    slumbering    hanging 

moons  are  gazing: 
And  somnambulant  drops  of  melting  snow  glide  from 

the  roofs  and  patter  on  the  pave  .  .  . 
I  in  a  dream  draw  the  echoes  of  my  footfall  silvery 

sharp  .  .  . 

Sleep-walking  city! 

Who  are  the  wide-eyed  prowlers  in  the  night? 

What  nightmare-ridden  cars  move  through  their  own 

far  thunder? 
What  living  death  of  the  wind  rises,   crackling  the 

drowsy  twigs? 

In  the  enchantment  of  the  ebb  of  life, 

In  the  miracle  of  millions  stretched  in   their  rooms 

unconscious  and  breathing, 
In  the  sleep  of  the  broadcast  people, 

115 


lldasbittQton  Square 


In  the  multitude  of  dreams  rising  from  the  houses, 
I  pause,  frozen  in  a  spell. 

We  sleep  in  the  eternal  arms  of  night: 

We  give  ourselves,  in  the  heart  of  peril, 

To  sheer  unconsciousness: 

Silently  sliding  through  space,  the  huge  globe  turns. 

I  cannot  go: 

I  dream  that  behind  a  window  one  wakes,  a  woman 

She  is  thinking  of  me. 


116 


SKY-LOVER 

SKY-LOVER! 
Embracer  of  the  hiving  stars! 
The  swarms  of  golden  bees! 
I  feel  the  strength  of  thine  ancient  arms 
And  the  power  of  thy  going  forth  through  endless 
night. 

In  the  gross  darkness  thou  hast  spun  a  widening  spiral 

of  light, 

Moons,  stars  and  glowing  suns: 
But  through  these  thou  goest  forth  into  the  unadven- 

tured  abysses, 
Chaos  unconquered, 
We  going  with  thee. 


117 


o 


THE  FLOCKS 

N  A  DOWNY  feather  of  the  dove,  Earth,  I  lie: 
The  bird  is  flying  down  eternity. 


Far  out,  and  far  under  and  over,  the  flocks  of  stars  are 

flying  as  in  the  autumn  winds  .  .  . 
Whither   are  they  winging?    to   what  nests   in  what 

radiant  South? 

And  what  echoes  of  their  songs  come  to  me, 
And  who  is  the  gentle  master  of  the  homing  birds? 


118 


H 


THE  TREE 

E  SANG  as  if  the  heavens  held  only  two  things: 
God  and  himself. 


Was  his  voice  heard  as  the  roving  Spirit  leaned  toward 

the  Tree  of  the  Skies 
And  parted  the  leaves  of  the  stars, 
And  peered  through  at  the  tiny  green  blossom,  the 

Earth, 
And  on  Earth,  the  little  singer,  standing  and  praising 

the  Lord? 

Yet  here  I  am:  the  petal  of  earth  swaying  in  an  ocean 

of  far  star-leaves: 
Yet  here  I  am,  living,  aware,  and  singing  with  loud  full 

voice. 


119 


Settings 


BOOKS 

ONL  Y  on  the  days  when  my  life  has  ebbed 
Do  I  feel  the  need  of  books  to  renew  me  .  .  . 
But  on  the  days  when  I  am  quick  and  pouring  with  life, 
I  turn  to  ihe  book  of  the  -world  at  whatever  page  I  happen 

to  open  it, 
And  read  what  never  yet  was  told  in  ink. 


ARRIVAL  AND   DEPARTURE 

'hen  I  gel  there,  once  I  told  myself, 
The  fight  will  be  over. 


'But  when  I  got  there,  to  my  amazement, 

The  fight  was  not  over  .  .  . 

And  I  see  now  it  will  never  be  over,  even  in  death. 


120 


Jottings 


EXILE 

Fou  cannot  exile  me  : 
Wherever  you  send  me,  my  dear  old  self  goes,  along, 
Carrying  on  his  back  the  bag  in  which  all  the  ages  since 

creation  have  thrown  their  winnings, 
So  that  he  staggers  under  riches  .  .  . 
How  then  can  you  exile  me  ? 


THE  EDGE  OF   THE  POSSIBLE 

TT'ast  is  the  city,  concealing  fires  behind  its  walls,  its 
r  streets  and  its  faces : 

So  for  the  adventure  I  choose  the  spacious  night, 
And  go  forth  marvelling  at  what  may  happen : 
Tripping  along,  breathless,  on  the  edge  of  the  possible. 


121 


Settings 


THE  BAFFLED  ONE 

\TOT  until  you  find  a  meaning  in  yourself,  will  you 
•*  »        find  a  meaning  in  the  world. 
That  is  what  ails  you  .  .  . 

Your  inner  con  fusion  you  perceive  all  about  you, 
Once  you  get  purpose  into  your  life,  and  you  will  see  it  in 
all  life. 


122 


RENEWAL 

I    RENEWED  some  forgotten  friendships: 
My  old  friend,  the  sky,  and  my  comrade,  the 

open  air: 

My  dear  cronies,  the  hills,  and  my  lover,  the  sea: 
I  went  out  and  we  had  an  afternoon  of  it  together. 

They  gave  me  tokens: 

You  may  taste  the  sea  on  my  cheeks,  and  the  fragrance 

of   the  hills  is  in  my  hair: 
And  the  tan  on  my  face  is  a  memento  of  the  friendly 

sky. 


123 


THE  ADORED  ONE 
I 

(To  Her  of  the  Many 
Films) 

YOUR  smile  is  very  sweet:  yet  it  baffles  me: 
Your  brown  eyes  are  large  and  clear:  yet  the 
woman  who  peers  through  them  is  mys 
terious. 

Though  your  talk  flows  in  melody,  winged  with  thought, 
Though  you  seem  so  young,  yet  so  quaintly  wise, 
You  are  deep,  you  are  subtle,  girl-faced  woman! 

Dove  and  serpent,  is  it? 
Much  am  I  baffled! 


124 


THE  ADORED  ONE 
II 

BE  WHAT  you  are:  all  women  in  one: 
Be  the  coarse  fool,   and  the  mean  and  petty 

complainer! 

Be  the  slave,  be  the  courtesan! 
Be  the  haughty  ruler  of  hearts,  and  the  cruel  strong 
empress! 

Be  also  sweet,  gentle,  gracious: 
The  lovely  child,  and  the  wistful  seeker  after  affection : 
The  calm  woman,  deep  in  brooding  wisdom: 
The  healthy  comrade,  free  and  fleet-footed: 
The  watchful  mother,  with  wings  spread  out  for  the 
loved  one! 

All  that  you  hide  mars  what  you  reveal : 

Be  what  you  are,  sure,  various,  strong: 

Baffle  us  no  longer:  you  are  only  baffling  yourself. 


125 


Y 


THE  ADORED  ONE 
III 

OU  are  proud  and  strong,  lion-hearted  girl; 
But  do  you  know  what  love  is? 


.You  are  quick  with  the  colors  of  beauty,  star-gleaming 

girl: 
But  do  you  know  what  passion  is? 

Oh,  the  skies  of  Spring  are  here: 

Where  is  a  mate  for  the  moon-warm  darkness? 

Crickets  shall  shrill  in  the  grass  as  you  walk  alone. 

What  is  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  when  no  sun  floods 

them? 

They  die,  adorable  one,  they  die  in  the  grasses! 
Do  not  turn  away  from  the  splendid  shining  of  love: 
But  take  your  pride  and  your  strength  and  with  your 

two  hands  cast  them  in  the  dust: 
Give  up  to  love,  as  in  death,  to  be  born  again: 
You  will  come  back  radiant,  you  will  come  back  bear' 

ing  the  sunrise, 
Filling  the  light  of  the  world  with  the  light  of  your  eyes. 


126 


THE  ADORED  ONE 
IV 

YOU  play  the  queen: 
But  I  remember  a  simple  girl  singing  in  the  dairy: 
Men  were  tamed  by  her  sweetness. 

You  crown  your  hair  with  paste: 

Have  you  forgotten  the  radiance  of  your  undrugged 

eyes, 
And  the  quickness  of  your  smile? 

I  only  say:    Be  yourself  .  .  . 

What  in  your  play  has  reached  down  into  the  crater 

of  your  human  heart, 

Or  walked  the  sun-clear  peaks  of  your  spirit? 
Be  demon:  be  angel:  oh,  be  woman! 
Queenship  is  but  a  garment  hiding  your  glory: 
Crowns  but  muffle  the  night-dream  of  your  hair. 


127 


THE  ADORED  ONE 
V 

HAVE  you  kissed  that  kiss  that  draws  open  the 
door  of  life, 
Loosening  the  floods,  till  your  body  sings  with  strong 

joy? 

Do  you  know  the  tremor  of  the  spirit  that  rises  on  a 

glance  and  a  touch 
And  braids  the  stars  in  your  hair? 

Do  you  come  shining  to  work  in  the  gray  morning 
Because  your  lips  are  dewy  with  the  imprint  of  a  kiss? 

Oh,  glowing  one,  you  walk  in  emptiness: 

You  distrust  and  despise  yourself  and  the  world  of  men: 

In  your  triumph  you  taste  defeat:  and  in  your  glory 

vanity: 
Go  and  know  love,  the  giver  of  victories. 


128 


THE  ADORED  ONE 
VI 

WHOSE  adored  one  is  this?    For  her  beauty  walks 
on  light  to  the  ends  of  the  Earth: 
The  Australian  and  Spaniard  must  sigh  at  a  glance 
of  her  face. 

Many  bring  gifts  to  you,  kneeling  in  the  dust  before 

your  loveliness: 
Must  I  come,  too? 
Ah,  no!  ah,  no! 

I  will  stand  before  you:  my  eyes  a  little  higher  than 

your  eyes: 

I  will  demand  tribute  of  you, 
Even  the  tribute  I  bring: 
Yourself  for  myself:  equal  and  free. 

If  you  want  worshippers,  take  these  secret  thirsters 
after  your  beauty  .  .  . 

The  honey  they  bring  is  bitter  .  .  . 

But  if  you  want  love,  you  can  only  get  what  you  give: 

You  too  must  adore  the  beloved,  and  kneel  down  your 
self  when  he  kneels. 


129 


FRIENDS 

NOW  the  day  dies,  and  the  workers  trudge  home 
ward: 

They  pass  my  window: 
I  see  a  few  lights  twinkling  in  the  tall  buildings,  as  if  the 

evening  star  were  reflected  .  .  . 

What  hands  are  emptying  the  glowing  urn  of  peace  on 
the  dark-wayed  city? 

My  friend  and  I  sat  smoking  in  the  little  room: 

Lightly  we  took  the  ball  of  the  Earth  and  tossed  it  in 
talk  to  one  another: 

Unwitting  the  generation  about  us  was  held  up  to  our 
probing: 

Our  hearts  and  minds  were  glowing  urns  of  unthink 
able  riches  which  we  poured  for  each  other. 

Is  the  evening  so  calm  and  tender  because  it  has  let  go 
its  full  floods,  giving  love  in  its  radiance? 

As  the  evening  were  my  friend  and  I: 

We  parted  sure  of  each  other:  peace  was  upon  us  and 
serene  love. 


130 


AS  TO  BEING  MADE  A  FOOL  OF 

THAT  bothered  you,  didn't  it? 
That  prevented  you  from  entering  into  strange 

adventures, 
Especially  with  women  .  .  . 

After  all,  however,  it  is  not  so  bad: 

If  that  be  the  price  of  experience 

Then  I  must  pay  it: 

For  to  be  laughed  at,  and  to  play  the  fool 

Is  cheap,  by  all  odds,  in  exchange  for  the  gift  of  life. 


131 


THE  WRITER  OF  MANY  BOOKS 

THE  WRITER  of  many  books  was  weary: 
"Enough  of  ink!"  said  he,  "Enough  of  words! 
Would  I  were  a  builder  of  bridges  or  a  breaker  of 

stones  .  .  . 
Then  at  least  something  real  were  done  .  .  ." 

Out  on  a  lonely  farm  in  Montana,  at  the  close  of  day, 
The  woman  brooding  toward  insanity, 
Lit  a  lamp,  and  looked  in  his  book:  and  the  tears  came: 
And  the  ice-pack  round  her  heart  melted  down  in  a 

torrent .  .  . 
Blessed  release! 

Far  in  Texas  a  tubercular  boy  was  plotting  a  marriage, 
But   he   read   the   tale,    and   his  heart   broke   in   his 

breast .  .  . 

"I  shall  not  send  my  blight  on  the  unborn  babe," 
So  he  wrote  the  author, 
"No:    I  am  off  to  Arizona  tomorrow." 

In  a  New  York  hall  room  a  girl  was  dreaming  of  suicide, 
She  read  his  words,  and  as  to  a  call  of  trumpets  her 
soul  rose  and  went  forth  .  .  .. 

132 


TKHriter  ©f  flfcan£  Boofes 


A  seed  so  small  that  the  eye  misses  it 
Starts  in  the  womb  the  growth  of  a  human  child  . . . 
Ye  that  scatter  the  seed  of  words,  scorn  not  the  sowing, 
Nor  the  Master  that  sent  ye  out  in  the  barren  fields. 


133 


THE  MIGHTY  HOUR 

'"PHESE   ARE   the   days   of   immense   and   solitary 
1  strength : 

When  to  be  alone  is  no  hardship 
And  to  go  forth  among  men  is  a  satisfying  joy .  .  . 

For  I  have  found  myself: 

I  have  ceased  to  be  ashamed  of  the  things  I  cannot  do 
And  have  become  proud  of  the  things  I  can  do: 
I  have  accepted  simple  living  and  endless  labor: 
I  have  accepted  peril  and  risk  all  around  me, 
And  I  have  become  patient  with  the  world  and  with 
my  own  faltering. 

I  live  with  this  moment,  and  suck  out  its  particular 

essence, 
Whether  it  be  the  bakery  lunchroom  and  the  shopgirls 

about  me, 
Whether  it  be  some  poor  dull  person  stuffed  with  rich 

eating, 
Whether  it  be  stars  over  the  snow  and  the  sharp  winds 

of  winter, 
Or  whether   it  be  my  narrow   room,   and   unbusied 

loneliness . . . 

134 


Mour 


So  living,  I  give  myself  to  the  purpose  of  the  Earth  .  .  . 
I  let  the  Mother  put  forth  through  me  as  she  puts  forth 

through  the  least  bud  on  her  breast, 
I  open  the  way  for  the  rise  of  that  sap  and  shape  it  for 

men  and  women  .  .  . 
And  so  I  am  what  I  was  born  for:  and  peace  comes  in 

so  being: 
And  strength  .  .  . 
For  so  Earth  herself  is  for  me,  and  even  the  stars  in 

their  courses  . . . 

Is  this  egotism? 

Shall  tomorrow  break  me  in  the  dust  till  my  cry  goes  up 

to  the  heavens? 

Shall  a  bitter  cup  come  to  my  lips  after  this  splendor? 
Even  so  ... 

I  yet  shall  know  what  is  possible  in  the  mighty  hour, 
I  yet  shall  know  that  a  gaint  sleeps  in  my  heart, 
And  that  after  the  despoiled  days  have  gone  over 
Again  I  shall  be  myself  and  live  in  that  victory. 


135 


I II 

WE  UNBORN 


w 


THE  MOTHER 

HAT  DOES  the  woman  sing  to  the  love-seed 
under  her  heart? 


"Oh,  my  beloved,  unborn, 

Oh,  lips  in  the  darkness  that  yet  shall  be  kissing  my 

breast: 

I  send  my  life-blood  into  you, 
And  great  love  upon  you: 
Hushed  in  the  pool  of  the  dark  you  blossom  in  me! 

"Beloved!    I  make  this  charge  upon  you: 

When  out  of  my  littleness  you  come  to  the  sudden 

vastness, 
And  faces  are  about  you,  and  cities,  and  the  winds  of 

the  deep: 

Fear  nothing,  baby: 
My  arms  are  there:  my  breasts:  your  mother  meets 

you!" 

Thus  sings  the  woman:  this  is  the  song  of  all  women: 
So  sang  a  woman  to  me. 

139 


tlbe  jflDotber 


Tides  of  the  darkness  !    Cave  of  the  midnight ! 

Am  I  still  seed  ? 

What  life-blood  flows  through  the  Earth  to  me: 

What  great  love  is  upon  me  : 

Who  sings  ?  .  .  .  What  Mother  ? 


140 


T 


DEATH 

HIS  starry  world,  and  I  in  it . 
How  can  I  get  out  of  it? 


I  go  to  sleep,  but  when  I  wake  I  am  still  here .  . . 
All  night  my  blood-drops  circled  through  my  body  as 

the  stars  circle  through  the  body  of  the  world  .  .  . 
All  night  the  flame  of  life  burned  in  my  breast  and 

brain  as  the  stars  burn  in  the  breast  and  brain  of 

the  world  .  .  . 

And  what  is  Death? 

It  is  a  swing-door.     I  push  through,  coming  out  on  the 

other  side  .  .  . 
But  the  other  side  is  the  world,  just  as  this  side  is  the 

world  .  .  . 
There  is  no  escape  .  .  . 

So  I  had  best  do  my  work  now,  lest  I  shall  have  to  do  it 

later  .  .  . 
I  had  best  be  myself  now,  lest  later  I  shall  have  to  battle 

with  the  crusts  upon  myself, 
Lest  later  I  shall  have  to  begin  again  at  the  beginning, 

unlearning  all  my  faults .  .  . 

141 


5>eatb 

This  was  as  true  a  hundred  million  years  ago, 
This  will  be  as  true  a  hundred  million  years  from  now, 
As  it  is  now,  at  this  moment. 


142 


LOOKING    DOWN    ON    EARTH 

LOOKING  down  on  Earth, 
As  from  some  distant  heaven, 

And  seeing  body  after  body  drop  and  the  life  fly  from  it, 
All  day  long  and  all  night  a  host  of  the  dead  arising: 
It  seemed  indeed  a  curious  life,  that  life: 
It  seemed  indeed  a  curious  end,  that  death . . . 

Then,  here  on  Earth, 
I  sitting  at  this  desk  in  this  small  room, 
So  thrillingly  alive, 

Yet  soon  to  meet  that  fine  decisive  moment, 
Pause  in  strange  awe  to  think  that  what  these  others, 
These  hosts  of  dead,  have  passed  through, 
I  too  shall  soon  experience,  down  to  the  last  gray  detail: 
Darkness,    with    secret   gleams    of    a    rising    twilight 
beyond  .  .  . 

Not  only  these  others  (ah,  that  is  strange  enough!) 

But  I  myself:  all  that  1  am, 

To  pass  through  the  black  process, 

Turning  away  in  agony  from  the  sweetness  of  the  sun 

and  the  crowds, 
Renouncing  all,  with  bitter  dread  and  loathing: 

143 


Down  ©n  Eartb 


Even  as  the  babe  in  the  womb,  could  it  be  conscious, 
Would  pass  into  the  mystery  of  the  world  .  .  . 

Ah,  world,  art  then  a  womb? 

Are  we,  the  living,  but  the  unborn  children, 

And  is  death  birth? 


144 


THE  RUNNER  IN  THE  SKIES 

WHO  is  the  runner  in  the  skies, 
With  her  blowing  scarf  of  stars, 
And  our  Earth  and  sun  hovering  like  bees  about  her 

blossoming  heart? 

Her  feet  are  on  the  winds,  where  space  is  deep, 
Her  eyes  are  nebulous  and  veiled, 
She  hurries  through  the  night  to  a  far  lover. 


145 


IN  THE  THEATER 

LAST  NIGHT  in  the  theater 
The  fleet-footed  dancers  bowed  in  the  spotlight: 
Then  they  clasped,  and  invisible  hands  shaped  them 

like  waters  that  never  spilled: 
And  at  once  through  me  rose  the  mists  of  creation: 
And  I  saw  that  chaos,  the  illimitable  nebula  of  the 

universe 

Had  jetted  forth  this  pair:  the  eternal  pair: 
Sex:  the  dancers:  the  light-footed  trippers  on  the  Earth. 


146 


THE  SURVEYOR 

A   FANCY  teases  my  brain: 
From  the  North  Star  the  Surveyor  drops  his 

plumb-line, 
It  unravels  down  to  the  Earth,  and  beyond  the  Earth 

through  the  spacious  gulfs  beneath  .  .  . 
He  measures  the  heights  and  depths  of  the  heavens: 
Who  shall  measure  the  width  ? 


147 


A  HANDFUL  OF  DUST 

I  STOOPED  to  the  silent  Earth  and  lifted  a  handful 
of  her  dust .  .  . 

Was  it  a  handful  of  humanity  I  held? 

Was  it  the  crumbled  and  blown  beauty  of  a  woman  or 
a  babe? 

For  over  the  hills  of  Earth  blows  the  dust  of  the 
withered  generations: 

And  not  a  water-drop  in  the  sea  but  was  once  a  blood- 
drop  or  a  tear: 

And  not  an  atom  of  sap  in  leaf  or  bud  but  was  once  the 
love-sap  in  a  human  being: 

And  not  a  lump  of  soil  but  was  once  the  rosy  curve  of 
lip  or  breast  or  cheek  ,  .  . 

Handful  of  dust,  you  stagger  me ... 

I  did  not  dream  the  world  was  so  full  of  the  dead: 

And  the  air  1  breathe  so  rich  with  the  bewildering  past: 

Kiss  of  what  girls  is  on  the  wind? 

Whisper  of  what  lips  is  in  the  cup  of  my  hand? 

Cry  of  what  deaths  is  in  the  break  of  the  wave  tossed 

by  the  sea? 

I  am  enfolded  in  an  air  of  rushing  wings: 
I  am  engulfed  in  clouds  of  love-lives  gone .  .  . 

148 


B  IHanfcf  ul  of  JDust 


Who  leans  yonder?     Helen  of  Greece? 

Who  walks  with  me?     Isolde? 

The  trees  are  shaking  down  the  blossoms  from  Juliet's 

breast: 
And  the  bee  drinks  honey  from  the  lips  of  David  .  .  . 

Come,  girl,  my  comrade: 

Stand  close,   sun-tanned  one,   with  your  bright  eyes 

lifted: 

Behold  this  dust .  .  . 

This  is  you:  this  of  the  Earth  under  our  feet  is  you: 
Raised  by  what  miracle?  shaped  by  what  magic? 
Breathed  into  by  what  god? 

And  a  hundred  years  hence,  one  like  myself  may  come, 
And  stoop,  and  take  a  handful  of  the  yielding  Earth. 
And  never  dream  that  in  his  palm 
Lies  she  that  laughed  and  ran  and  lived  beside  this  sea 
On  an  afternoon  a  hundred  years  before . .  . 

Listen  to  the  dust  in  this  hand: 
Who  is  trying  to  speak  to  us? 


149 


ASSURANCE 

YEA,  THERE  are  as  many  stars  under  the  Earth  as 
over  the  Earth  .  .  . 

Plenty  of  room  to  roll  around  in  has  our  planet .  .  . 
And  I,  at  the  edge  of  the  porch, 
Hearing  the  crickets  shrill  in  the  star-thick  armies  of 

grass, 
And  beholding  over  the  spread  of  Earth  the  spread  of 

the  heavens . . . 

Drink  this  deep  moment  in  my  pilgrimage, 
With  a  sense  of  how  forever  I  have  been  alive, 
With  a  conviction  that  I  shall  go  on,  ever  safe,  ever 

growing, 

The  stars  to  be  included  in  my  travels, 
And  the  future  sure  before  me. 


150 


THE   RISEN   ONES 

BEGINNING  millenniums  back 
We  were  given  of  the  cup  of  the  Earth  to  drink: 
A  cup  of  the  blood  of  torment  and  love: 
A  cup  set  to  our  emerging  and  vanishing  lips  again  and 

again  through  a  million  years: 
And  we  have  waxed  on  agony:  seed  has  become  man. 

But  behold!  now  from  the  rivers  of  blood  the  prophets 

of  peace  lift  up, 

Out  of  the  pain  rises  a  running  and  winged  joy, 
And  out  of  the  lamentation  springs  a  laughter! 


151 


THE  DREAMER  IN  ME 

THE  DREAMER  in  me  keeps  on  dreaming  though 
my  lips  are  babbling  and  my  eyes  are  watchful . .  . 

I  may  be  in  the  railroad  terminal  speaking  to  a  friend. 

The  dreamer  is  on  a  warm  moist  hill  under  the  cloud- 
soft  skies, 

He  feels  the  Earth  moving  and  smells  the  flowers  down 
to  their  roots, 

He  pierces  the  blue  heavens  with  his  wings. 

Then  I  look  round  and  think,  how  strange: 

Stone  walls:  crowds:  my  friend  and  I ... 

Yet  all  of  us  seen  by  the  dreamer  as  a  little  blur  in  the 
skies, 

As  a  patter  in  immensity .  .  . 

Where  are  we?  where  is  Earth?  where  are  the  skies? 

The  dreamer  shivers  and  laughs: 

It  is  so  miraculous,  visionary  and  grotesque, 

Such  nonsense,  this  reality  .  .  . 

Yet  my  friend  and  I  go  on  talking  as  if  there  were 
nothing  strange  in  it  at  all. 


152 


WE  UNBORN 

I 


f    AWAKE: 


Midnight,  star-shouldered,  is  leaning  over  me. 


I  must  to  my  desk,  and  light  the  lamp,  and  stare  at  the 

flesh  of  my  hands  and  legs: 
Marveling  to  breathe  and  be  alive. 

I  open  the  window:  I  lean  out  in  the  dark. 

Stars!  shall  you  answer  my  cry  tonight? 

Earth !  shall  you  turn  to  the  call  of  your  son  ? 

Where  is  the  answerer?     Where  are  the  lips  of  the 

midnight? 
Oh,  world,  my  belove'd,  whisper  to  me! 

Surely  my  love  for  you  has  been  welcome  in  the  dark 
ness  of  the  night: 

Surely,  Mother,  the  asking  child  shall  be  taught: 
Though  I  am  little  in  the  flesh,  am  I  not  large  in  the 
love  of  my  heart? 

153 


Me  ZTlnborn 


ii 


I  sit  at  my  desk: 

I  take  the  eye  of  Science  and  spy  out  the  endless  ether 

floating  with  worlds, 
But  of  all  those  stars,  those  numberless  millions  beneath 

and  above, 
Only  the  little  hasty  Earth  under  my  feet. 

Millions  of  the  sprawling  bodies  of  men  clothe  like 

a  sea  the  slopes  of  this  planet, 
But  from  all  that  naked  flesh  lying  on  the  globe, 
Here  do  I  rise,  not  one  of  them:  but  I, 
Myself .  .  . 


Ill 


I  take  the  wings  of  thought, 

Up  from  the  Earth  I  soar,  I  scale  the  skies  quicker  than 

light, 

And  the  planet  whirls  to  a  moon  beneath  my  feet, 
And  drops  through  the  gulfs,  a  stone, 
And  dwindles  to  a  star  .  .  . 
Still  spreads  the  Milky  Way  ages  above  the  reach  of 

my  fingers, 
And  all  the  sides  of  the  amphitheatre  of  Eternity  hold 

tiers  on  tiers  of  the  far  stars, 
And  the  monstrous  abyss  is  scattered  with  a  sowing 

of  stars, 

154 


Tide  TUnborn 


And  looping  its  twinkling  sun,  the  grain  of  the  Earth 
is  shining  .  .  . 

But  there  is  the  body  I  left:  sitting  in  the  narrow  room: 

Writing  at  the  desk: 

It  pauses:  the  face  lifts:  the  eyes  stare  in  the  lamp 
light: 

It  questions  ...  it  questions! 

I  drop: 

I  am  back  in  my  room:  I  am  at  this  desk: 

Tut!  skies?     A  picture  hanging  on  the  immense  walls 

of  my  mind: 

The  Earth  is  a  curious  nugget  in  the  palm  of  my  hand: 
I  am  the  sustaining  and  enfolding  ether  of  the  universe! 

IV 

I  gaze  at  the  ash  of  my  cigar: 

I  become  smaller  than  a  pin-point:  I  climb  inside  the 

ash: 
Lo,  a  world  immense  and  miraculous  as  the  star-sown 

universe! 

I  am  standing  in  the  spinning  of  atom-worlds, 
I  am  pausing  in  the  rising  and  setting  of  innumerable 

suns, 
I  am  lost  in  the  fleeing  of  dead  gray  moons  in  the 

dark  .  .  . 

I  laugh:  I  fleck  off  the  ash:  it  scatters: 

And  lo,  I  am  still  here,  face  to  face  with  Self. 

155 


Tide  IHnborn 


Ah,  not  that  one  thing  is  more  miraculous  than  another, 
But  that  somehow,  struck  from  this  mass  and  motion, 

not  you  nor  the  sun, 

But  I,  I  am  here,  in  the  center  and  thick  of  it: 
This  torch  of  a  body  with  a  brain  shedding  invisible 

light: 

This  Self,  this  secret  cave  I  may  retire  to : 
This  paradox  of  outer  appearance  and  inner  perception: 
This  net  that  catches  stars  and  people  as  if  they  were 

fish  in  the  infinite  sea: 
This  strainer  wherethrough  all  tides  of  life  pass,  leaving 

deposits: 
This  tool  working  on  the  world:  this  flame  burning 

into  the  beings  of  others: 
This  lover  and  hater  casting  light  and  shadow: 
This  creature:  this  creator: 
This  dwarf:  this  god: 
This  is  the  dumb-mouthed  miracle  my  questions  are 

shattered  on ! 


VI 


With  all  the  heavens  to  choose  from: 

I  that  may  have  dropped  once  through  the  Milky  Way, 

Sky  to  sky  falling, 

How  did  I  ever  pick,  not  only  the  Earth, 

Poor  little  brown  ball,  ever  half-dark  and  half-wintry, 

156 


TUnborn 


But  that  infinitesimal  pair,  that  woman  and  man, 

In  the  quaint  hill-house  at  the  head  of  the  rambling 

street, 

And  take  on — I  that  had  measured  the  heavens — 
This  form  that  now  is  bowed  at  this  desk,  writing  this 

song  of  questionings? 


VII 


The  room  swims  out  on  space: 

And  I  see  that  the  finger  of  greatness  touches  my  fore 
head: 
And  that  size  is  nothing:  experience  is  all. 

For  the  kiss  of  my  beloved  shrinks  night  to  the  rift  of 

her  lips, 
And  the  death  of  my  child  darkens  sun  and  moon  in  the 

firmament, 
And  my  heart's  song  turns  to  an  echo  the  large  music 

of  the  spheres, 
And  my  spirit's  dream  makes  the  heavens  the  shadow 

of  my  gliding  feet. 


VIII 


I  am  as  a  wave  fleeing  before  the  flood  of  the  ages: 
The  rush  of  the  ocean-river  pushes  me  on:  it  lifts  crea 
tively  through  me: 
It  yet  shall  sweep  me  out  into  the  night. 

157 


We  TUnborn 


Oh,  Ocean,  eddying  with  spindrift  of  stars  and  moons, 
Oh,  Mother-Ocean,  how  did  you  beget  me? 

And  now  the  voice  of  the  Ocean  rolls  into  song  in  the 
channels  of  my  heart: 

IX 

"I  am  the  Mother: 

I  am  the  Ocean  shaped  of  the  waters  of  life: 

My  body  is  the  spiraling  torrents  of  Life  across  Eternity: 

Out  of  the  mouth  of  darkness  I  came  pouring, 

And  down  through  night  I  descended,  a  child  of  waters, 

A  singing  girl  whose  body  grew  hollow  with  the  drifts 

of  the  suns .  .  . 

For  the  nebula  of  my  childishness  was  shot  with  dreams, 
And  I  eddied  toward  the  light  that  opens  in  your  mind, 
And  I  shaped  toward  the  love  that  lies  in  your  heart, 
And  I  groped  toward  division  into  millions  of  gods, 
The  one  made  many  .  .  . 

"In  a  fury  I  have  grown:  ages  but  the  crusts  I  have 

broken  through: 
Skies  but  the  hollowness  in  the  depths  of  my  waters 

wherethrough  I  have  sent  my  strength. 
Suns  but  pods  I  have  burst,  scattering  seeds  of  planets : 
Earth  but  a  bud  of  mist  that  opened  before  my  yearning 

into  hills: 
And  the  hills,  mating  with  my  love,  opened  out  into 

seeds, 

158 


We  "(Unborn 


And  the  seeds  unfolded  into  animals, 

And  the  vague-brained  animals  blossomed  into  man: 

And  still  I  grow:  through  you,  I  grow: 

You  in  your  little  room  somewhere  suspended  in  the 

sky-egg  of  the  stars : 
That  egg,  the  womb  of  your  Mother! 

"Son:  my  beloved! 

1  am  the  Mother: 

And  though  your  body  is  hidden  within   me,   1   lift 

through  you,  you  lift  through  me: 
For  I  am  the  Ocean  of  life  dividing  into  millions  of 

channels: 

You  are  one  of  the  channels: 
Together   we   innumerable   waters   pour  through  the 

heavens, 
And  there  shall  be  many  minglings  until  we  grow  into 

gods: 

Growing  forever  through  torment,   travail  and  love: 
Reaching  toward  the  deaths  that  are  births: 
And  you  are  that  part  of  me  that  is  creative  as  I : 
Your  will  is  on  the  reins  of  the  stars  even  as  mine  is 

upon  them: 
Created,  you  have  become  a  creator. 

"Son:  my  beloved! 

Love  death,  the  releaser: 

Give  yourself  grown  to  the  outward-opening  gates: 

159 


TKHe  "(Unborn 


Pass  from  the  sun-woven  littleness  of  the  heavens 

To  the  spaces  of  my  arms: 

Be  born!  be  born!    Many  and  many  await  you!" 

X 

Star-shouldered  midnight!    Room  solid  about  me! 
Flesh  of  my  hand  holding  the  pausing  pen! 
How  here,  cooped  in,  shall  I  realize  the  vision? 

Lo,  I  will  bag  the  stars,  clapping  the  far  millions  of 

them  in : 
This  scoop  is  the  little  womb  of  the  Mother. 

I  will  recede  in  phantasy  a  million  years  back 
And  stand  in  the  sun-fire  from  which  I  sprang, 
And  swim  the  dark  river  of  my  life  up  the  ages: 
That  river  is  the  flowing  blood  of  the  Mother. 

I  will  take  a  string  and  hold  one  end  of  it  on  the  Earth 
And  one  end  touching  the  seven  high  Pleiades, 
And  I  will  describe  a  circle  around  the  Earth: 
This  huge  sphere  of  skies  is  but  an  egg  in  the  body  of 
the  Mother. 

XI 

Mother: 

Oh,  thou  reaching  me  through  thy  body  with  life-blood 
and  love: 

160 


THnt>orn 


So  deep  within  thee  I  bide:  so  thoroughly  thou  growest 

through  me: 

So  thoroughly  I  grow  through  thee: 
That  though  the  slant  of  infinity  finds  me  as  a  mote  of 

flesh  on  the  mote  of  a  world, 
The  heavens  are  but  feeders  of  my  growth  and  the 

Earth  is  my  supper  before  the  night  of  death: 
The  ages  of  thine  agony  and  mine  are  the  pains  of  my 

growing: 
They  that  love  me  and  they  that  hate  me  are  thy  hands 

shaping  me: 
And  the  streets  are  the  running  track  of  my  soul. 

Yea,  these  people  are  thyself  and  myself,  Mother: 
Through  a  million  years  we  have  been  poured  through 

each  other: 
Through  gate  after  gate  of  the  human  Mothers  I  have 

come 

Up  the  alley  of  the  ages:  often  a  mother  myself .  .  . 
Oh,  generations,  we  have  passed  through  each  other! 
Oh,  houses  of  the  flesh,  we  have  dwelt  in  each  other, 

heart  within  heart! 
Oh,  people,  it  is  for  this  I  am  drawn  to  you  with  such 

unsearchable  love! 
This  is  the  mass  of  blended  life  the  Mother  is  growing 

through. 

XII 

Mother,  may  I  not  well  sing  the  amazing  song  of  life? 

161 


We  "Cinborn 


Oh,  may  I  not  well  lift  the  song  of  my  adoration? 
This  gift  is  too  great  for  the  heart  of  me  so  tiny  and 

throbbing: 
Bear  me  on  thy  tides  and  pour  through  me  into  great 

and  unwithheld  creations  and  love: 
Let  my  lips  in  the  darkness  bear  witness  to  thee: 
Let  my  works  be  thy  works  through  the  toil  of  my 

hands: 
Let  me  go  forth  in  the  day  dawning,  dropping  the  stars 

of  thy  heavens  on  the  darkened  streets: 
I  am  thy  son,  and  I  would  have  thee  take  joy  in  me: 
I  am  thy  unborn,  Mother,  moving  toward  the  morn 

of  my  nativity. 


162 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

PAGE 

A  fancy  teases  my  brain 147 

Ah,  had  I  the  wings  now 105 

Ask  for  no  mild  millennium 53 

Beginning  millenniums  back 151 

Be  what  you  are  :  all  women  in  one 125 

Bitter,   bitter 42 

Body,  whence  come  mind  and  soul 106 

Breast  of  Earth,  with  all  these  sea-worn  stones 64 


Civilization ! 


Death  and  birth  dog  us 

Do  you  think,  my  boy,  that  when  I  put  my  arms  about  you. 

Ever  the  same — this  love  of  the  weak 44 

Far  from  the  sun  over  the  ages  and  spaces  of  the  sky. . . .  107 

Fierce  hunger  has  come  upon  me 97 

Go  a  little  aside  from  the  noise  of  the  world 62 

Have  we  given  up  thy  spell,  Renunciation  ? 72 

Have  you  kissed  that  kiss  that  draws  open  the  doors  of  life  ?  128 

Ha!  you  count  it  horrible  that  the  murder  was  committed.  58 

Here  is  strength,  here 31 

He   sang   as   if   the    heavens   held   only  two  things :   God 

and  himself  1 19 

How  many  are  strong  enough  to  reject  riches? 61 

I  am  no  sorrier  for  you  than  I  am  for  myself 100 

I  am  so  happy  these  days 98 

I  awake   153 

I  could  write  the  psalms  again 112 

If  marriage  is  to  be  one  flesh,  this  twain  made  one no 

If  you  want  to  find  your  brothers 50 


flnoei  of  ff irst  Xines 


I  have  a  notion  to-night  that  the  Earth  and  I,  locked  in 

each  other's  arms 114 

I  have  heard  of  a  great  love 19 

In  a  dark  hour,  tasting  the  Earth 70 

In  the  fragrance  of  her  simple  heart  I  still  bathe  myself . .  88 

I    renewed    some    forgotten    friendships 123 

I  saw  the  unwritten  face  of  the  child 65 

Is  that  your  reason?    The  Children?     Their  future? 59 

I  stooped  to  the  silent  Earth  and  lifted  a  handful  of  her 

dust   148 

I  take  as  my  master,  not  you  nor  myself  nor  the  past 66 

It  was  as  if  myself  sat  down  beside  me, 3 

It  was  you,  the  glowing  youth  that  went  forth 56 

I  want  a  woman  for  the  adventure 92 

I  was  as  a  sieve  for  the  wind  this  morning 41 

Last  night  in  the  theater 146 

Late,  and  lonely  and  faint  for  sleep 101 

Let  nothing  bind  you 5 

Looking  down  on  Earth 143 

Love  86 


My  life  does  not  belong  to  me. 


Neither  from  the  woe 39 

Not  until  you  find  a  meaning  in  yourself 122 

Now  the  day  dies  and  the  workers  trudge  homeward 130 

Of  old,  the  psalmist  said  that  the  morning  stars  sing  together  23 

Oh,  my  being,  opening  into  the  dazzle  of  sunrise 85 

O  my  most  bitter  mood 30 

On  a  downy  feather  of  the  dove,  Earth,  I  lie 118 

Once  I  freed  myself  from  my  duties  to  tasks  and  people 

and  went  down  to  the  cleansing  sea 13 

One  would  think  the  dead  were  burying  the  living,  not 

the  living  the  dead 55 

Only  on  the  days  when  my  life  has  ebbed 120 

Priests  are  in  bad  odour 46 

Push  off  the  clinging  arms 21 

Sin !   sin !  sin !    1 1 

Sky-lover  117 


Unoei  of  jf  irst  Xines 


Starless  and  still H5 

Stuck  in  the  mire  of  many  philosophies 25 

Sun,  with  a  million  eyes 109 

That  bothered  you,  didn't  it ? ;•••.••  I3I 

The  aesthetes  read  and  wax  contemptuous  or  enthusiastic.  32 
The  babe  is  the  beautifully  cunning  dust  that  desires  and 

breathes    104 

The  dreamer  in  me  keeps  on  dreaming 152 

The  haunted  heart  beseeches  me 20 

The  love  of  man  for  woman  and  woman  for  man 17 

The  old  hag  sat  on  the  park  bench,  picking  her  teeth....  45 

There  comes  a  moment  when  to  believe  is  not  enough...  49 

There  was  a  man  called  pure 33 

The  sea  is  itself:  it  does  not  fear  to  be  calm  or  stormy..  63 

The  sea  put  a  finger  of  foam  on  its  lips  of  waves 65 

These  are  the  days  of  immense  and  solitary  strength....  134 

The  sea  whispers  to  me  of  women 64 

The  soul  is  an  abyss 48 

The  wheeling  heavens,  at  this  moment  wheeling 28 

The  world  is  wild in 

The  writer  of  many  books  was  weary 132 

They  set  the  slave  free,  striking  off  his  chains 24 

This  starry  world  and  I  in  it 141 

Though  I  am  little  as  all  little  things 103 

Vast   is   this   city,   concealing   fires    behind   its    walls,   its 

streets  and   its   faces 121 

We  spat  on  the  dirt  and  the  flesh 51 

We,  that  are  the  very  waters  of  change 67 

What  does  the  woman  sing  to  the  love-seed  under  her  heart?  139 

What  face  lifts,  so  perfect  in  profile  ? 99 

What  is  the  tiny  flame  of  my  match 63 

What  song  shall  I  sing  to  the  heavens  ? 113 

When  a  woman  is  wanted 95 

When  from  the  brooding  home 74 

When  I  get  there,  so  I  told  myself 120 

When  in   the  death  of  love 15 

Where   bides    brotherhood 47 

Where  love  once  was,  let  there  be  no  hate 16 

Where  may  she  of  the  hall-bedroom  spend  the  love-hour?  90 

Who  can  measure  the  agony  of  man  ? 68 

Who  is  the  runner  in  the  skies 145 


irnoei  of  Jffrst  Xines 


Whose  adored  one  is  this?    For  her  beauty  walks  on  light 

to  the  ends  of  the  Earth 129 

Why  am  I  restless  ? 29 

Why  did  you  hate  to  be  by  yourself 7 

Would  you  lay  a  pattern  on  life,  and  say,  Thus  shall  ye  live  ?  26 

Yea,   there  are  as  many   stars   under  the   Earth  as   over 

the  Earth 150 

You  and  I  in  the  night,  spied  on  by  stars 83 

You  are  proud  and  strong,  lion-hearted  girl 126 

You  blame  yourself 57 

You  cannot  exile  me 121 

You  play  the  queen 127 

Your  smile  is  very  sweet:  yet  it  baffles  me 124 


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